


City of Ascencion

by ehre_wahrheit



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Supernatural
Genre: ACTUALLY OOC, Adam is here, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, John Winchester is an OK dad, Mary Lives, Might be OOC, Multi, Protective Dean Winchester, Supernatural Angels, welp Simon's falling into a dark headspace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 93,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5613313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehre_wahrheit/pseuds/ehre_wahrheit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crossover AU.</p><p>Simon and his friends just wanted to celebrate the end of the school year. What starts that night changes them, and their world as they know it.</p><p>[Edited 7/08: This has turned out into a giant Mess Of A Work]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** All rights reserved to CW, WB, and the creators of these universes: Erik Kripke and Cassandra Claire. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Questions/Prompts/Etc can be directed to [ my Tumblr @ ehre-wahrheit ](http://ehre-wahrheit.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> **Warnings:** You do not need excessive knowledge of either series if you're in here after only knowing one. I will be making references to canon events every now and then. Highly unedited, and if you've read any of my works before, you'll know that I am not a native English speaker. Grammatical and technical errors are all the fault of the author.

“Fifteen minutes.”

Their proctor was a middle-aged man of about fifty, with his belly popping out of his belt like a misplaced basketball. He wasn’t overly short, but he wasn’t that _tall_ either, and he was balding, the top of his head oiled to perfection. Rumor was, if you looked at his head in the wrong light, it could blind you. It was a great weapon against cheating.

Dean felt a smile pulling at the corners of his lips, but managed to keep his head from rising to shoot a shit-eating grin at the aforementioned man. He was at the last item, anyway, and it was taking everything in him not to just jump with joy, because _this is it_.

This was the last day of his high school education—graduation was only a week away, and he and his friends have reviewed so much last weekend that it was almost too easy. ( _Almost_ being the keyword here because half the time they were just throwing insults at one another their fandoms which, _not cool, bro._ ) He could have finished the exam in thirty minutes (Simon did) but he wanted to savor his last hour of high school, thanks. _Last hour of high school_ , he thought happily, because _it was. Last hour, after this, no more lessons, no more quizzes, no more living under conditions close to that of a prison._

He should have at least felt a shred of sadness, right? That was normal, right? But—but he couldn’t bring himself to, because the only reason this place mattered to him in any way was because of the people he’d be spending the next week—the _next two months—_ with anyway. He couldn’t find it in himself to look for loss where everything else was a gain, though he almost felt obligated to do so.

He shaded his final answer, closed his booklet, and finally turned his smile up to their proctor. It was a smug, happy smile, something that made him feel pleased even without seeing it, and the proctor’s lips twitched. Dean counted it as a success.

“Time’s up, everyone please pass your exam papers.” His voice sounded oily, like the voice of a person who has had one cigarette stick too many. When he coughed, it sounded painful, and Dean just barely avoided cringing whenever he did. It was too loud in the room filled with desperate, silent students. _Another thing to say goodbye to,_ he thought.

Dean stood with the half of the class that was left with him the room, confidently walking up to the teacher and giving it up. And then he was free—he barely managed not to break for a run towards the door that was swinging closed from the last person who exited. The natural light of the sun blinded him for a second—unused to the brightness after almost two hours of sitting in a theater whose overhead lights were so old they were almost dim.

 _Almost_.

“We _made it,_ ” he said breathlessly as he caught a familiar redhead in his arms and swung her around. “We made it through high school, Bradbury!” She was light in his arms, which made carrying her around easy, but she could pack a punch like nobody’s business. Dean could almost still feel his jaw click when he remembered.

Charlie was giggling as he set her down, and she had to clutch at his arm so as to not fall over. “Calm your tits, good sir,” she laughed, “and yes, we made it!” Her eyes were bright with excitement, her voice colored in enthusiasm. He has never seen her be like this before, except maybe when they talked about LARPing—their weekend getaway—or conventions. It made him grin even more.

“This is awesome,” someone else blabbered, and Dean turned to see no one else but Clary Lewis standing behind him, holding her backpack to her chest. He grinned at her and offered his hand for a high five, which she gave enthusiastically. “Oh my _god_ , guys, do you know what this means?”

“That we’re out of the clutches of high school, and are on our way to the claws of college,” said someone _again_ , and Dean looked behind Charlie to find Simon, the last of their ragtag group. He looked forlorn as he said this, but there was no mistaking the excited glint in his eyes or the set of his shoulders that he only got when he was ready for a new video game or book or show. It made Dean want to grin, but he was already grinning, and he didn’t even care that the baseball and basketball teams were congratulating him because Clary was _right_ —it was awesome. “I couldn’t even stand it any longer, I had to finish that test as quickly as possible.” He sounded disgusted.

Charlie burst out laughing, having to clutch her stomach by the force of it. “I couldn’t stand _Julio_ ,” she answered, saying the name like a curse. “Didn’t you notice the whole class _cringe_ every time he coughed? It was _disgusting_.”

Simon nodded solemnly as Dean and Clary laughed, and then suddenly, Dean had an idea.

A _big_ idea.

“You know what we need to do?” he asked conspiratorially, voice low as he leaned in. The others leant closer as well, interests piqued by his tone. “We should go to a club. Party—guys, we’re out of high school!”

Simon pulled back first, nodding his ascent. “I, for one, am with you in that assessment.”

“Am two,” Clary piped up, rising on her toes as her hand shot up as if she was calling attention during recitation. Dean smiled.

“Am three,” Charlie said, her voice almost shaking with excitement. “Do you guys know Pandemonium? It’s this club that’s so popular right now—it has all-ages nights, and I think tonight is one. So, what do you guys say we go and… _cause Pandemonium_?” She giggled at her own joke, which got her amused and fond looks from the rest of them, but Dean himself was in agreement with her. Pandemonium was indeed a very popular place, not only for its all-ages service but because the place was _wild_.

No one ever had drugs, or was ever raped, but the parties—Dean’s wanted to go for months since he first heard about it, but without his circle of friends there didn’t seem to be any point. There was now.

“Alright, bitches, I’m driving ya’ll home,” Dean announced. “And then I’m picking you up at seven, capiche?”

All three of them automatically checked their watches, and it seemed to be a fair arrangement because they all bobbed their heads in agreement. It was only almost five, their last exam having been moved to three PM. He lead them to the parking lot, where his car was at—he couldn’t wait for the day his father lets him have Baby, the Impala, because he never wanted a brand new car anyway.

It was Chevy—silver, chrome—and he was thankful when he got it for his sixteenth birthday. It was like a dream come true, to finally get a car of its own, but the sweetest deal he got was the promise to finally own the Impala if he could take care of this sedan until his twenty first birthday. He was more than ready to prove to his dad that he could do it.

He dropped Simon off first, with Clary yelling at him to wear “something that isn’t a statement or nerd shirt—wear one of your button-downs!” from the open backseat window as he drove off. Next to be dropped off was Charlie, who promised she’d be ready by seven when Dean came for her because of a past experience wherein she wasn’t ready an hour after their stated meeting time.

Dean lived closest to Clary—they live in the same street—and then he went home. He found his brothers Sam and Adam in the living room, both hunched over their respective homework, and he ruffled their hair as he passed them, smirking at their indignant words as he went to his room to change out of his uniform.

He wanted to wear his usual flannel, but decided, _nope_ , if he could pick someone up tonight he would. So he went for the black Henley Clary told him made him drool-worthy, and wore his favorite jeans.

“Sam?” he called, as he was donning his jacket. “Who’s home aside from you two?” He put on some shoes, and then walked out of his room. Sam was still busy with his homework, but Adam was already on the couch, busy watching TV.

“Dad’s in the yard,” Adam answered absently, eyes trained on the television screen. “I think he’s cleaning out guns.”

Dean wanted to comment on the fact that _Adam, a nine year old boy_ , could so easily and flippantly talk about his father cleaning guns in their yard, but he didn’t. He let it go and went out to the yard to find his father. John Winchester was, indeed, cleaning out guns, but not in the yard. He was in the tool shed.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that a nine year old kid knew his dad was cleaning out guns in the yard?” he drawled as he entered the shed, announcing his presence before showing himself. “Isn’t that against the law?”

“The only laws I follow are the ones stated in the White Book, Dean,” his father answered, his eyes trained on the guns in front of him.

 _The White Book, right,_ Dean thought sarcastically. “And, if I remember correctly, the White Book clearly states _no child under thirteen can_ —”

“Shut _up_ , Dean, that’s not what you came here for.” He glared at his dad, who ignored him by continuing with, “And besides, Adam is not your regular initiate. He is by association—to me, to your mom, to _you_ —both a Hunter and a Letter. Speaking of which, the letter came for Sam this morning. Would you like to be the one to give it to him? It’s in your room.”

He wanted to yell, but he didn’t. Instead he took a calming breath and thought of what his father said. They get letters exactly seven days before their thirteenth birthdays, and Dean had talked his parents into letting him be the one to give his to Sam. He was the only one who knew about what it was like, to actually be initiated—Sam and Adam only heard of rumors and snippets. It would be better for him if he got the news from Dean.

Dean didn’t actually _want_ for Sam to be trained or initiated, but _again_ , the White Book stated he had to be. And the Network Law dictated it. They just had to suck it up.

“I’m giving it,” he decided, thinking that he would give it after his graduation ceremony. “Anyway, you’re right, I didn’t come here to tell you off for letting my brother know you were cleaning out guns—”

“ _Dean_ —”

“—I came here to ask for permission to go out to a party tonight.”

John Winchester raised his eyebrow at this, but Dean refused to back down.

“I’m going with Clary and the others,” he added, because his dad liked the Lewis’s more than he was comfortable with. He thought his dad wanted him to marry Clary, though he had expressed doubts when Dean came out as bisexual.

“You’re bringing—”

“A bottle of holy water, a vial of salt, a silver chain, and an angel blade,” he listed off quickly. “Please?”

John’s eyes narrowed at him before sighing. “It’s a club, isn’t it?”

Dean groaned. “ _Dad—”_

“ _Fine_ , be home before midnight. I trust you won’t get too drunk, because Mrs. Lewis will _kill_ you if you drove Clary home under influence, and I really don’t want a repeat of the last time.”

 _The last time_.

The last time Dean had gone out to a club for a party, he had to stay late because there turned out to be an errant Vampire—she was newly turned, didn’t know what she was doing. During the trial, it turned out her Sire was new, too, and didn’t really know what it meant to turn a vampire. He had made a deal with the local clan, and that was how he turned.

Dean came back with a ripped arm that night—and without getting to drive his friends, who he had left during the engagement, home. Mary had to make up some excuse as she was the one to pick them up and drop them off at their respective homes, and… well.

That night John and Dean Winchester witnessed the wrath of a mother, a Hunter, and an Heiress. She was _scary_ , even scarier than most things Dean has hunted in the last four years. He couldn’t find anything scarier than facing off with his mom’s anger.

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, “me neither. But—it’s Pandemonium, dad. Well-known neutral zone, I’m sure I won’t run into trouble.”

John sighed and waved him off. “Before midnight,” he repeated, and Dean grinned and nodded before walking off. He checked the kitchen for food before he left—telling Sam that there was food in the fridge just waiting to be heated up.

Adam asked where he was going, and he grinned and told him.

With that, he left home.

 

**..--..**

 

“You know, I am so _excited_ it’s scary,” Simon said as he waited with his friends in line. It was true—his heart was beating uncomfortably fast in his chest and _what if they don’t let me in_? But Charlie was there, and she was younger than him by a few months and she looked ready to get inside.

The line to Pandemonium was long, especially since tonight was a Friday, and the bouncers were extra careful in checking their belongings. The girl who just passed—Simon was _sure_ he saw a flicker of— _something_ as she entered the door, but she was gone before he could fully process it.

He let it go and stepped forward.

Six more people, and it’s his turn. Charlie and Dean were holding a conversation about the merits of getting a Princess Leia in a golden bikini tattoo, and Simon added that “there are no bad things that can come from that”. Charlie agreed.

Dean looked thoughtful. Simon grinned and was once again thankful that Clary Lewis decided to talk to him when she moved in back in third grade. She came into his life bearing the gift that was Dean Winchester, who Simon had seen around but had never really talked to until the day Clary became their common friend.

And then Charlie entered their lives in high school, and it was good.

These were his people. He grinned over the conversation and stepped forward again. Five more people. The line was moving faster than he thought it would, but he wasn’t complaining. He was _excited_ to get inside.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Simon looked up at the incredulous, sharp tone, only to see the bouncer cross his arms over his chest.

“You can’t bring that thing in here.”

Simon felt guilty that he was eavesdropping—he was his mother’s son, and Clary and Charlie’s friend, he knew better than to listen in on another’s conversation—but he couldn’t help it. He knew that the bouncer was talking loudly so that the others in the line could know what the rules were, but _still_.

“Aw, come _on_.” The kid hoisted the thing up over his head. It looked like a wooden beam, pointed at one end. "It's part of my costume."

 _What costume_? Simon thought. He was wearing a red zip-up jacket, and he looked normal enough. He didn’t even look like he was planning on wearing a costume—blue hair aside, it _did_ seem suspicious for someone to bring in something like that.

“Which is what?” the bouncer asked, raising an eyebrow, and Simon wanted to grin because _hey, I was wondering that question, too!_

The kid grinned. “I’m a vampire hunter,” he said. He pushed down on the wooden thing. It bent as easily as a blade of grass bending sideways. "It's fake. Foam rubber. See?"

When he shifted, Simon noted that he had bright green eyes—like antifreeze. Colored contact lenses, he listed off quickly, but he couldn’t help it that his automatic response to seeing pretty green eyes was to compare it to Dean’s.

Dean’s eyes were green and gold, something that should have been impossible but one look at his mom said everything about him. Mary Winchester had the kind of heterochromia where one eye was colored green and the other a strange shade of brown it was gold, and it was no surprise that his son got it from her.

That family was almost unfairly beautiful—it was as if on the day God let blessings of beauty rain, it was on the day everyone was wearing raincoats or using umbrellas but the Winchesters and Campbells weren’t, and they were soaked. Point, it was _unfair._

“Whatever. Go on in,” he heard, and he snapped back to reality with a rush and stepped forward. There were two more people in front of him, but it was as if there was no wait whatsoever before he was finally inside Pandemonium.

Inside, the club was full of dry-ice smoke. Colored lights played over the dance floor, turning it into a multicolored fairyland of blues and acid greens, hot pinks and golds.

It was just as he imagined it to be. He turned around to wait for his friends—Clary came in first, and then Charlie, and finally Dean. He grinned at his friends and lead them inside, watching the blue haired guy from his peripheral vision. Clary was beautiful tonight, he was startled to only see now.

She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans that hugged her legs _just right_ , and a shirt that made Simon immediately feel guilty for objectifying her. He knew it wasn’t okay, but he couldn’t help that he had a crush on the two of his best friends who never said if they were straight or not.

Dean probably was—he has a string of girlfriends to account for, but something in Simon’s mind traitorously told him he could be bisexual. _Which_ Dean could be, seeing the way he flirted with both genders wherever they went, but he didn’t want to think of that tonight.

That crush was going nowhere anytime soon.

This party, though… This party, Simon was making sure to.

“Are they going to serve us drinks?” he asked Dean, who was the one to suggest this place

“They will,” Dean answered, leaning closer to Simon so he could be heard, “but they have a quota for kids without IDs. Three shots, I think, that’s it. I suggest we keep don’t drink until later.”

“Why not take one now, one later, and the last one for before we go home?” Charlie suggested, her voice tinny in the loud music of the club. Dean nodded his ascent, and he looked to Clary—the gentleman—who agreed first before looking at Simon. He couldn’t really say _no¸_ and he did want to drink so he shrugged.

“Alright,” Dean said, “why don’t you girls find us a spot and Simon and I’ll get our drinks?”

“Always the gentleman,” Clary said, grinning as she punched Dean’s shoulder. She linked arms with Charlie, and off they went.

“Do you have any idea where the bar is?” Simon asked Dean dubiously as he looked around. They were still near the entrance, and there were so many bodies packed on the dance floor that it was impossible to see beyond ten steps away from them. He has already lost the girls.

Dean grinned, and it made the bottom of his stomach fall. “No, I don’t,” he said cheerily, “and we’re gonna have fun looking.”

Simon knew that look. It was the look of “I am not taking no for an answer”. Simon shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Lead the way, good sir. And I thought you were a gentleman.”  


Fooling the mundies were so easy, he thought as he ran his hands up and down the sharp edge of his sword. To the mundies it looked like something harmless—a toy, maybe. But it was sharp enough it could cut through their bones if he wanted to test it out. But this place had enough Downworlders, too—this should really be fun.

Now it’s time to look for his victim.

But he was quite enjoying his time—this place had so much life, energy, heat—this place was one of the places he loved going to. The sheer light it emitted from the bodies within was a glowing, drool inducing beacon to those like him, who had forgotten what it was like, to have life on his own.

To have a life that wasn’t dependent on another’s for survival.

He curled his lip, eyes scanning the moving, writhing bodies in front and around him. He had begun to step out onto the dance floor when a girl broke away from the mass of dancers and began walking toward him. He stared at her. She was beautiful, for a human—long hair nearly the precise color of black ink, charcoaled eyes. Floor-length white gown, the kind women used to wear when this world was younger. Lace sleeves belled out around her slim arms. Around her neck was a thick silver chain, on which hung a dark red pendant the size of a baby's fist. He only had to narrow his eyes to know that it was real—real and precious. His mouth started to water as she neared him. Vital energy pulsed from her like blood from an open wound. She smiled, passing him, beckoning with her eyes. He turned to follow her, smiling. This is what made things easy.

Pretty little things like her made things easy for him. Humans were so stupid. They had something so precious, and they barely safeguarded it at all. They threw away their lives for money, for packets of powder, for a stranger's charming smile. He almost pitied them, except he could taste the life of this pretty thing on his lips, and he couldn’t wait for it to become real.

He licked his lips as he drew nearer. Up close she wasn't so perfect: he could see the mascara smudged under her eyes, the sweat sticking her hair to her neck. He could smell her mortality, the sweet rot of corruption. _Got you_ , he thought.

 

He smiled at the sound of Dean’s laughter. Simon was more than relieved when they finally found the damned bar. Dean sidled up to it immediately, ordering four shots. Simon was surprised at the honesty by which he said he was seventeen, youngest of his friends. The barkeep smirked at him.

“I usually give easy shots to kids,” the man said, grinning slyly at Dean, “but I’ll give you special treatment.” He winked, and Simon tuned their flirting out, turning instead to look around himself. He had lost the blue haired guy when they fought their way into the crowd, and he was surprised his eyes were still looking for him.

“Simon?”

He was broken out of his reverie by Dean calling his name. He turned, blushing. “Yeah?”

Dean’s grin wasn’t helping, really. “Come on, I got our shots. Let’s go look for the ladies, shall we?”

“This your friend?” the barkeep asked, his voice low and look dark. For a guy who _wasn’t_ dating Dean, he was possessive. _Of course he’s possessive,_ Simon snorted, _have you seen_ Dean? He knew Dean noticed, too, because his friend raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

“Is there a problem?”

The guy’s smile turned from cold to sweet immediately, so quick Simon almost got whiplash, but he wasn’t buying it anymore. “Of course not, babe. Call me?”

Dean rolled his eyes and walked to Simon, handing him two of the shots he was holding on to. “I get so many people flirting with me and trying to pick me up, you’re gonna think I was a chick.”

“Would it help if I told you it’s because you actually _look_ like a girl?”

Dean sent him a hard look, one that Simon deigned to ignore because no matter where he went, it was the evaluation he got from everyone he knew. Simon started thinking it only after John, Dean’s dad, pointed it out one dinner night at the Winchester’s. He’d said it so mildly, so evenly, that it seemed as if he was talking about his job, not his son _looking so much like his mother that I’m going to take the plunge and say I should have had a daughter_. Simon had never seen Dean blush so hard before, and John only made it worse by continuing with, “and sometimes I feel like I do.”

“You’re remembering dad, aren’t you,” said Dean and Simon shuddered.

“Please don’t say it that way,” he begged, “it makes it weirder than it already is.”

Dean rolled his eyes but blessedly kept his mouth shut. Simon allowed his mind to wander again, but not his eyes. He _refused_ to lose Dean. Dean’s steps were purposeful, as if he knew exactly where he was going, not like when they were trying to locate the bar. But that was just one of Dean’s perks—even in a gym or a stadium with literal hundreds of people, he knew where to go to find the people he cared the most about. It’s like he had this mental link with the lot of them. On his first basketball game, Simon found it strange that he went straight for them despite not knowing where they were beforehand, but as time passed by he just… let it go.

He groaned, out loud, and he looked at Dean, alarmed.

The other teenager didn’t seem to have heard him, which made him sigh in relief. He had to stop thinking of Dean, _seriously_. But if he stopped thinking of Dean, his thoughts turned to Clary, which is just as bad as thinking of Dean. He wanted to smack his head on a cold, hard, brick. That would make things interesting.

He had been so lost in thought that he didn’t even realize they’ve found the girls, only breaking out of it when Dean reached for the glass on his hand. He blinked, from Dean’s grin to Charlie’s smile to Clary’s questioning sniff at her drink.

“To the end of high school!” Simon said, thrusting his drink closer to the booth Clary and Charlie had chosen.

“To a great summer,” Dean agreed, clinking his glass with Simon’s and letting it stay there.

“For better, new lives,” Charlie cheered. She hit their glasses so hard that the sloshing liquid threatened to spill. It stopped and settled before that could happen, though, and Simon was relieved. He did _not_ want to smell like alcohol, never mind that he never told his mom he was planning on drinking (mostly because he didn’t know he could drink here).

“To the beginning of something new!” Clary finished, tapping her glass with the rest of them. Dean counted to three and—

 _Bottom’s up_!

It was _horrible_.

It burned the back of his throat and made him ache to cough, and he did, once, but he regained his composure before his friends could laugh at him. Dean looked satisfied with himself, Charlie looked pleased, and Clary’s face was a cross between surprised and disgusted.

“I feel you,” he told her hoarsely, thankfully accepting the bottle of water Charlie handed him. After clearing his throat, he felt back to normal. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “that was awesome. I wanna go again.”

“Whoa, down, boy,” Clary murmured. She had her eyes closed, her hand on her throat. “It was warm. And horrible. But awesome—what was it?”

“Vodka, Sprite, and rum,” Dean listed off. “I told him not to add soda, but the guy didn’t want to go against the rules. He wasn’t supposed to give kids vodka.”

“How’d you manage that?” Charlie asked, interest piqued as she stared at Dean, who slid into the booth beside her. Simon didn’t feel like sitting down just yet.

“My pretty face,” Dean said, shrugging. “Aren’t you going to sit down, Simon?”

“Actually,” Clary interrupted, “I wanna go dance. Charlie?”

“Why aren’t you asking me?” Dean asked, but he didn’t sound disappointed or curious. He was simply asking. “Or Simon? He’s closer.”

“ _Cooties_ ,” Clary answered, prolonging the o, and Simon rolled his eyes.

He left them to it, though, his eyes scanning the club around himself once more. He found Blue Hair again, but he wasn’t alone. He was in one corner of club with a girl, and he was drawing closer— _well then_ , he thought, shaking his head. He was about to turn away just as they entered a room— _privacy_?—when he something caught his eye.

More like, _someone_. Movement caught his eyes—in the gold and flickers and fog of the room, it was almost impossible to miss the two figures in all-black, but they moved without anyone giving them notice.

 _Is this the normal scene for Pandemonium_? he asked himself, looking around at the brightly colored people around himself. He felt something at the pit of his stomach, and he moved before he could think of it—moving where, he wasn’t sure.

He stopped when he saw something though—he saw it glint, and there was no mistaking it for what it was.

“ _Dean!”_ he called, already moving, because he was sure he knew what it was—a _knife_. Why would _anyone in their right minds_ bring a knife into a club?

“What?” Dean asked, catching up Simon.

“Call security,” Simon said, his voice just as agitated as he felt. “I saw a _knife_.” He finished his sentence just as the two guys entered the room following the girl and Blue Hair, and he wanted to move faster but he couldn’t, not with these number of people around.

Dean was gone and then back so quickly he was almost surprised, but his attention was trained on the door. Dean opened it and entered without him, but Simon wasn’t just leaving him to deal with this on his own.

It was a storage room—boxes, shelves upon shelves of them, coiling wires on the floor, hanging off of hooks around them on the walls—and the distinct smell of sweat. Dean slowly moved, like a predator, and Simon found himself fascinated by the movement, but he quickly snapped himself out of it. He moved closer to Dean, following behind him, trusting his instincts.

He knew Dean could hold himself in a fight—had seen it when there were four guys about to mug them, and they had knives, too, and Dean fought them off and beat their asses. All he had were his fists. Simon wasn’t ashamed to admit that that was where his stupid crush on Dean Winchester began, because he was sure that any girl who saw the way he moved, the way his muscles rippled under his shirt would swoon at the sight. He would’ve, except only Twihards _swooned_. _He didn’t_.

It was a small enough room, and with a dawning sense of embarrassment, he realized that there was _no one here_. But Dean looked so… so focused. Had he believed Simon? He would think Simon was delirious. And he’d laugh at his face. He turned back, to the door, and opening his mouth to talk, but he was suddenly pulled to the ground, where Dean was crouching, and _this was it, this was it this was it—_

“ _Quiet,_ ” Dean hissed, and Simon followed his line of vision. It was as if—as if there was something slamming down on his eyes (or shutting up? He wasn’t sure) because one blink, it was open space, and the next, _they were there_. There was the girl, and Simon saw she was beautiful—her long hair was free, flowing down to her waist, her dress reaching down to the floor. She had her back to him. Beside her were the two boys in all black that he had seen, and he was right—the blond one _was_ holding a knife, and he was twirling it around as if it was a toy. All three of them had swirling patterns of ink running up their arms—the girl’s covered by her skirt, but as she folded the sleeves, revealed just as many… tattoos. Dean was tense as a wire beside him, watching the interaction, and Simon wanted to just back away and leave the room, but then he registered the conversation.

“…any of your kind with you?” the blond one was saying, and Simon startled. _Your kind? Was this some sort of gang war or something?_

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the blue haired boy snarled, looking, in all senses of the word, like a monster. Simon was starting to feel _really scared_ —the kid was growing teeth. Not just… _grow_ teeth like a baby would, but seriously, sprout teeth out like— _shark teeth_.

“Let me make it clear for you,” the blond one said again. “Are there any more demons with you?”

But the boy didn’t answer, and it was obvious that the three—note, _crazy_ , _psychopathic_ —teenagers were growing impatient at the silence.

“Kill it, Jace,” the girl said, and Simon’s eyes widened. He looked to Dean with fear, but Dean simply looked stricken, not at all nervous that they were going to watch a _murder happen_. He wanted to talk, to ask him why, but he couldn’t—his throat was too clogged up with fear. “It’s not going to tell us anything.”

“Valentine is back!” the boy cried, wiggling around in his restraint. “He is _back,_ and I can tell you where he is.”

The blond one, with the knife, who Simon surmised was Jace, stepped forward with all the grace of a deadly predator. He was beautiful, Simon thought, inappropriately. Not in the way Dean or Clary was, but in a totally different way. Deadly, coiled, and ready—like a shiny gun, maybe. But it didn’t seem fitting. This guy was more.

But the anger and contempt in his eyes… “By the Angel, every time we capture one of you bastards, you claim to know where Valentine is.” Simon wouldn’t call it _exploding_ , but it was almost as if that’s what happened when… _Jace_ spoke. It was as if there was an explosion somewhere in there. “ _And you can join him there_.”

That stopped him. And the fact that Jace was now raising his knife—if he had time to, he would appreciate its beauty. It looks like crystal, almost clear but also as deadly. He’s about to bring it down, and it was obvious that Dean wasn’t going to do anything about this—either he was frozen or _something else_ but Simon wasn’t going to let this happen, _no he wasn’t_.

“Stop!’ he was about to say, but Dean reached up to clamp a hand over his mouth before he could say the whole word.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dean hissed furiously. “Are you fucking crazy?”

“Are you?” Simon hissed back. “Dean, they’re going to kill that guy—”

“ _It’s not a guy, Simon_ —”

“Who’s there?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean said, and Simon watched as he slowly stood up, muscles wired and eyes flicking from one person in the room to another, except Simon, who was slowly standing up to face them, too.

All four of them were looking at the both of them like they’ve never seen a human before—their expressions read, in order: _what, what the, what the fuck,_ and _fuck shit what_. It would have been funny, except the three unbound ones who obviously knew each other were now all armed and Simon only had Dean as a human shield.

It was the dark haired boy who spoke first. “What is _this_?”

“Boys,” Jace drawled in answer. “I’m sure you’ve seen boys before—come now, Alec. I’m one. _You’re one_.” He scrutinized Simon, and then his eyes slid to Dean. “ _Mundie boys_ , who can see us.”

“What—of _course_ we can see you!” Simon spluttered. “I’m near sighted, not _blind_ , and Dean has perfect 20/20 eyesight!”

“Simon,” Dean hissed, “shut up.”

Jace grinned at him lazily. “Yes, little boy, shut up. And go away.”

“Go—you know what? I won’t even. I’m _not leaving_! If I do,” he pointed at Blue Hair, “you’ll kill him!”

“That’s true,” Jace answered. He looked at Dean again, before looking back at Simon again. “But why would you care, little boy?”

He bristled. “Okay—first off? My name is _Simon_. And second—what do you mean why do I care? You can’t go off killing people!”

“That, again, is true,” he said, and it was seriously annoying Simon now. “But this,” he pointed at Blue Hair, “is not a person. It might look like a person, and talk like a person, but it’s a monster.”

“Quit the dramatics,” Dean said, finally talking after his tense silence. “We’ve called the security personnel. They’re on their way.”

Jace’s look of contempt turned into a glare of anger when he looked at Dean, but didn’t back down. “And what do you think that’s going to do, little boy?”

Dean’s jaw ticked, and Simon was honestly afraid now of what was going to happen. “It’s going to stop this madness, because killing people in _public places_ is against the fucking _law_.”

Simon shivered at the deadly calm Dean’s voice has taken. The way he said his words made Simon feel like those weren’t the exact words Dean wanted to use, though, and by the look Alec and the girl were giving them, it was obvious they thought so, too.

But whatever response they were thinking of throwing back at Dean’s face was forgotten because at that moment, Blue Hair screamed—yelled, made a loud sound—broke free from his restraints and moved for Jace with jaws like a shark’s and hands like claws.

They fell to the ground and rolled together, the blue-haired boy tearing at Jace with hands that glittered as if tipped with metal. Simon might have screamed, he didn’t know, because Dean was pushing him behind himself and there was only a glimpse of it, but he saw the blue-haired boy sitting on Jace's chest. Blood gleamed at the tips of his razor-like claws.

It almost seemed as if there was a freeze in time, all of them just staring at each other, at the scene on the floor, until suddenly the two others moved and began running toward the Blue Hair and Jace, Isabelle brandishing a whip in her hand. The blue-haired boy slashed at Jace with claws extended. Jace threw an arm up to protect himself, and the claws raked it, splattering blood. The blue-haired boy lunged again—and Isabelle's whip came down across his back. He shrieked, a sound that made Simon cringe, and fell to the side. He knew he would never forget this night. Ever.

Swift as a flick of Isabelle's whip, Jace rolled over. There was a blade gleaming in his hand. He sank the knife into the blue-haired boy's chest. Blackish liquid exploded around the hilt. The boy arched off the floor, gurgling and twisting. With a grimace Jace stood up. His black shirt was blacker now in some places, wet with blood. He looked down at the twitching form at his feet, reached down, and yanked out the knife. The hilt was slick with black fluid.

The blue-haired boy's eyes flickered open. His eyes, fixed on Jace, seemed to burn. Between his teeth, he hissed, "So be it. The Forsaken will take you all." Jace plunged that beautiful knife into the _thing’s_ chest, and it exploded like a fucking firecracker of doom. There was a gooey, ugly-smelling substance that got left behind, and Simon reached up to wipe some off that splattered on his glasses. He was still behind Dean.

“That is seriously disgusting,” he said slowly. He felt nothing. He had taken a psychology course this year, hoping he could take psych as his major in the fall. He might be in shock—that was the only explanation he could think of at the utter lack of emotions and feelings, as he stared around the storage room. He nodded numbly at Dean’s asking if he was alright. He felt alright, at least, and when he looked around, the place looked disgusting. That… _thing_ was everywhere.

“Ichor, actually,” Jace drawled, alerting Simon that he’s spoken out loud. He couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed.

“The police are coming, right?” he asked Dean, whose face was completely devoid of expression. It was scary, especially on his face. If there was one thing Simon was proud of in his years of friendship with Dean, it would be that he could read every expression that would grace his face at any given moment. He had always been expressive, especially with body language, but at the moment?  “Dean?” He had known Dean for years. At the moment, he felt as if he didn’t know Dean at _all._ And remembering that Dean didn’t even move to stop any of this from happening…

“The police are usually interested in evidence,” he said quietly. “A body, most especially, if we report a murder.”

Simon frowned and looked—but he must be hallucinating, because _nope_ that body couldn’t be shrinking—like in a video game, it was growing smaller and smaller until it was gone. Just like that. _Is this my life now?_ he wonders dazedly.

He looked around. No… _ichor_ either. But he could still feel it on his skin—sticky, hot, disgusting. He reached up—there was a spot. Just that—that was the only evidence he had of this whole encounter.

“They go back to their home dimensions, if you were wondering,” Jace said, answering a question he didn’t know he should have been asking. _But who would think to ask something like that? I just witnessed someone get killed and disappear, for God’s sakes!_

“Home dimension,” Dean repeated flatly. “Right.”

“Jace,” Alec snapped, “ _careful_.”

“They can see us, Alec,” he said flippantly, “they already know too much.”

And if _that_ didn’t sound ominous. He took an unconscious step towards Dean, who moved as if to protect him. It was sweet. And stupid. They’ve both seen what these people could do, and even with Dean’s fighting abilities they won’t be able to fight for two lives at ones. It was a scary prospect. He just wanted to celebrate finally finishing high school tonight. It seemed like he should be expecting to be buried by the time he should have been marching for graduation.

“So what do you plan on doing with them?” the girl snapped, obviously finally having had enough of his flippancy. She looked… beautiful, even in her rage, and hello, inappropriate thoughts. Simon swallowed. It clicked in his throat.

“Let them go,” Jace finally answered, and Simon was ready to just drop in relief. _Hallelujah,_ he thought silently. _I will live tonight_. Jace was looking at him with this intense expression in his eyes, though, and it was starting to make him feel uncomfortable.

“Would that be all?” Dean finally interrupted, moving back towards the door. Simon took a step back, too.

“Maybe we should bring them with us,” Alec said, eyes flicking from Simon to Dean and back again. Over and over. It was making him confused. “I bet Hodge would like to talk to them.”

“No way!” the girl protested. “We can’t bring them back to the Institute—they’re _mundies_.”

“Would you please stop calling us that?” Simon said, finally snapping. He wanted to get outta here, ASAP. “Or, if you refuse, at least tell us what it means. It hardly seems fair that only you know what it means.”

Jace smirked and ignored him. “Or are they?” he asked, his voice low and _so intense_ as he stepped closer. Dean took one, too, going on the offensive, and Simon didn’t stop himself from reaching out to grab his jacket and tug.

“ _Dean_ ,” he hissed, but the other teenager wasn’t listening, too focused on Jace.

“I said, cut the dramatics,” Dean told Jace, his voice still that scary flat tone that made something in Simon shrivel in fear. “Let’s get to the point, shall we? I’m sure you want my friend and I outta here as much as we want to get out of here.”

Jace _grinned_ , unfriendly and cold and psychopathic and _nope_ , Simon wasn’t going to let Dean deal with this. They were getting out. “Dean, _come on_ ,” he urged.

"Have you had dealings with demons, little boys? Walked with warlocks, talked with the Night Children? Have you—"

“Oh _Christ_ ,” Dean breathed and jerked straight up, but Simon was still glaring at Jace. “ALRIGHT. First off, _our names are Dean and Simon_. Second of all, what the hell is this, some sort of _Buffy_ nightmare? _Dealings with demons_ , _walking with warlocks_ —god, you’re so ridiculous—you could have finished your literary streak with—”

“Simon? Dean?” It was Clary. “Are you okay? Dean, you said there were guys with knives?”

Simon turned. She was at the door of the storage room, one of the bouncers with her. He looked behind him. Dean, Jace, Alec, the beautiful girl. Jace gave a mocking bow to him, but none of them seemed surprised neither Clary nor the bouncer could see them.

“It was a mistake,” said Dean, his voice tinged with embarrassment, but he didn’t look away from Jace. He was _voice acting, what in the Seven Hells_. “I’m sorry.”

“I thought there were people here,” Simons piped up. “My friend came in here thinking it was real. Sorry.”

The bouncer looked really annoyed.

He heard Alec snort.

*.*

 

Neither Clary nor Charlie would stop asking them questions as Dean drove them home. Honestly, even Simon wasn’t sure he knew what he had seen. Had it not been for Dean, he would have thought he imagined the whole thing, but Dean had been there, and he was keeping quiet, too, and he was evading the questions just like he was.

But these were two of his best friends.

Why couldn’t he bring himself to tell them?

Would they think they were crazy? If two people saw things—what did that mean? Did that still mean they were crazy?

“Okay, let’s agree on something, okay?” Clary finally said. Her voice brokered no arguments. “Simon followed them into the wrong room, because Dean saw there was a knife, too. But let’s get this question out, okay? Are you both really alright? You don’t look it. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Simon swallowed. _It’s even weirder than that_. “I’m okay,” he said.

Dean repeated his words.

They drove in silence then, Simon thanking Dean for the ride. Dean wasn’t looking at him, and for some reason, that—and the fact that they didn’t get their two more shots tonight—made him want to break down or laugh hysterically. He did none of those things, though, and instead went inside.

Their elderly neighbor, Madame Dorothea—her plaque boasted SEERESS AND PROPHETEER, and Simon wasn’t so sure he didn’t believe in her anymore—raised an eyebrow at him and he waved at her before climbing the stairs. He quickly unlocked the door to the apartment he shared with his mother, glad that he could come home earlier than expected and not have to explain to her that he had drunk his first shot tonight.

His mother was in the living room when he walked in.

“Hey mom,” he greeted her. She was busy painting again, but she did look up to send a smile at him.

“So,” she started, “how did the end of high school party go?” She was smiling. And she was beautiful. She had always been beautiful, in the kind of way that made Simon sometimes question if he were really her kid.

“It went great,” he answered absently. He walked towards his room, but then he stopped. “Hey, mom? Has there ever been something wrong with me? Like, institutionalization-worthy kind of wrong.”

His mom stilled—he saw it in his peripheral vision—and when he looked, she seemed pale. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” Simon said immediately, suddenly fearing the kind of thoughts that must be running through his mom’s head. _Not good._ “It’s just that—I thought I saw something others couldn’t.” _Aside from Dean._ “What would you do in that circumstance, mom?”

“Simon—”

“Ugh, never mind. It’s screwing with my head. I’ll go to sleep. Good night, mom.”

He turned completely from his mother then, missing the look of horrified shock on his mother’s face as she watched him silently.

 

**..--..**


	2. Chapter 2

Dean dropped Clary off at her house and drove by his own, not stopping when he knew he should have. It was still early—not even eleven yet—and his curfew was at midnight. His thoughts were running wild, and he felt as if he would burst if he won’t find an activity to expel all this confused energy into. _Thank god for the car,_ he thought once more, remembering how he felt the first time he had ever learned to drive, the feeling of _calm_ and _contentment_ and _excitement_ as the engine purred under him, as he felt the power of the machinery he was running right on his fingertips.

He turned quickly, taking a back street so that just in case Clary looked outside her window, she still wouldn’t see him drive by. It made him feel like a bad friend, keeping all these secrets, and he waved it off by thinking, _I’m protecting them_. He took the familiar route towards a place that he admittedly had always found solace in: the library.

He checked the clock.

Ten thirty—it wasn’t too late yet. He could probably catch the last shift and ask to stay over. He knew he wouldn’t be able to rest, not with the words ringing sharp in his mind. _Mundie._ The way it had been spat out, as if it was poison, or an insult. _Shadowhunter._ The Dimensional had spit it out, almost like a swear, when he’d said it in the storage room. The disdain, the hatred—there was bad blood there, obviously, bad blood, borne by years, centuries, generations of death and war and pain, especially with the way that… _dimensional_ spat the word out.

He has never heard of them before, Shadowhunters. They called it a monster—they killed it in a neutral zone. There were only two exceptions of when you are allowed to kill anything in a neutral zone (at least according to the White Book): either it is there for destruction, or you are acting in self defense. There were three of them—obviously a team, like a Hunter’s Camp, so it _wasn’t_ self defense.

Was the dimensional there for death?

It could be. Or it also could have been there just to enjoy the essence of having neutral zones in the first place.

 _Shadowhunter_.

There were other kinds of hunters there—ethereal, beautiful, deadly. His thoughts turned to the girl—Isabelle, he thought her name was. Alec. _Jace_. They weren’t alone in this fight. He wasn’t sure if it was relief he was feeling or foreboding, if he was excited to learn about them or reluctant. The way they moved, the grace, the lack of hesitance, the sheer _beauty_ of the danger they held, even when they weren’t facing any immediate threat.

It couldn’t mean anything good, right, that they’re in the city? At least, not without the Network or the Letters knowing. Dean frowned. _Maybe they do. Maybe they just haven’t told you._

He pulled into the Men of Letters library parking lot and shut off the engine, relieved to find the lights inside still on. The library was open for public access, of course—but the public doesn’t really know the amount of _knowledge_ that’s inside this library. It was called the Central Library, where college students and scholars and civilians came to read or learn about history and philosophy and education and all other things they want to learn. The Central Library was expansive, it almost rivals the library in the Bunker—what with the city being Base Camp, and an Outpost, too—opening the library here was probably one of the best decisions those bastards have ever made. _They wrote the White Book,_ he thought, angrily, because it _wasn’t even white_. It never had been white, but they still called their… their _constitution_ the White Book.

God knew how the Hunters could stand the fact that they now have to play nice with those suited bastards. _And it’s all because of you. Your parents._

“Liam?” he called as he entered the vast cavern that was the library. It was beautiful—built in what used to be a small castle, the whole place was covered in shelves of books. The ruined inner walls worked for them when they bought it, because they just removed everything and rebuilt it so that it was one big open space, the walls lined with three rows of books on every side, rising until what had been built as the third floor. In the center was the front desk, but behind that, there was a small garden of beautiful trees and plants that was open at the ceiling that made one feel like they were entering a magical place, when they walk through the door—passing by tall, gracefully carved mahogany shelves, the floor carpeted a deep red it was disturbingly close to the shade of fresh blood, and then suddenly being greeted by brightness and life.

It was beautiful, and also creepy, at night. He wasn’t sure how Liam—a childhood friend, being the daughter of a Man of Letters—could stand to be here alone all day until eleven at night. The glass behind the front desk was pitch black, the leaves of the plants glinting at the fluorescent lights coming from inside the library. It gave the impression of a forest. A very creepy, very deadly forest.

“Dean?” he heard. He walked towards the table, where Liam’s head popped up from underneath the counter. She was frowning, almost pouting, her eyebrows scrunched as she studied him. “Please don’t tell me you’re here for a Hunt,” she said. “Because it’s too late, and it’s not safe, and also because I want to get home.”

Dean laughed. “No, I’m not here for a Hunt. Can I see the Letters Index?” He leaned against the marble tabletop, crossing his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles. He raised an eyebrow at Liam, who was still frowning as she straightened up, and then turned to the large file cabinet on one corner of her small booth.

She kept frowning at him even as she handed him a thick volume—bound in leather and thread. It was heavy in Dean’s arms, and it was old, very old—the first three hundred odd pages were written in 1988, when the Letters first decided they should start indexing, and has then been updated regularly since then, whenever a new discovery was uncovered. _A new discovery was discovered?_

He smiled at her in thanks, preparing to find a table and start _research_ (his least favorite part of Hunting, even though his initiation required him to read volumes thicker and more complicated than this), but she stopped him.

“Um, Dean?” she said, and her hesitance gave him pause. In the ten years they’ve known each other, Dean has never heard her hesitate, at _all_ , not even when Dean had to go on a Hunt and he was paired with Joanna Beth Harvelle, a Hunter couple’s daughter who had a knack of insulting everyone and everything. She had parried and shot back with the ease of a master word player, which she probably was, and that had been intimidating. Whatever this was… “I have to tell you something.” Ah.

“What is it?” he asked cautiously. He was more than ready to bolt for the door in case this blew up.

“I—I’m leaving. New York, that is,” she quickly added, her voice low and wavering, and Dean took a step forward.

“Leaving?” he repeated, because he couldn’t have had heard that right. If Liam left—

“For college, at the end of summer,” she answered, cutting his thoughts off. She sounded resolute, and the hard look in her eyes told Dean that she had thought about this, _felt for this_ , and she has made up her mind. “I can’t stay _here_ , Dean,” she continued, and she suddenly sounded lost and desperate and Dean just wanted to reach out to touch her but he couldn’t, just couldn’t, not until he heard everything she had to say. He had a feeling he had to. “I’m—I’m useless here, Dean, I know what exists out there. My dad won’t let me be an initiate _because I’m a girl_ and my mom’s a civilian, she would never let me be a Hunter. So I’m leaving. For Stanford. I’ll be taking medicine and—hopefully do something that’s actually worth something.”

Dean could hear the words she wouldn’t say. The words no one could tell him in his face, but he’s heard ever since he agreed to training and initiating. _You got the best of both worlds. All three, if you count the fact that you’re still considered a civilian_. Times have changed since the beginning of the Men of Letters—but he couldn’t believe that men like Liam’s father still existed.

They’ve begun allowing women to be initiated to the Men of Letters in 1957, and have never stopped, not even with the whining and cursing of a lot of the members. He’s heard the rumor of one of them being stripped of his ranks as Brother and Letter, because he had gone as far as threaten to murder one of the women in the Men of Letters.

The misogyny was strong in this one.

But he couldn’t find it in himself to tell her she was wrong. She could believe whatever she wanted, just as long as she got away. Being an Initiate and a Trainee wasn’t as fun as it seemed. There were reasons why the Men of Letters never worked—or even interacted at all—with the Hunter Network, and he was beginning to see now that all those reasons was going to be his future.

He was the product of a marriage of rebellion: his mother, a Hunter, married his father, a Letter, against better judgment and their family’s wishes. Now their family is the glue that holds the two worlds together; and Dean is the final product.

At first he didn’t want to be a Hunter. His grandfather threatened to take Adam away to become one. He agreed. When he turned thirteen, he didn’t want to be a Letter. His dad said Sam was going to be required then, if Dean didn’t agree. He did. And now here he was, fighting a dying battle: he was a hero. His life was a dream.

 _It wasn’t_.

“If it’s what makes you happy,” he told her instead, “then do it. I’m not going to stop you. It’s your life—it’s your decision, don’t let some wrinkly old man spoil it for you.” _Like I did._ “You’ll be helping people, Liam.”

She sighed, and she sagged in obvious relief. “I haven’t told them. I’ve told my brother but all he said was that whatever I did, I had to make sure to do it because I wanted to. Not because I’m trying to make a statement.”

Dean stilled. He _hated_ hearing that phrase—it was freaking _slapped_ onto his family like a brand. It was stupid, and unfair, and completely senseless. He didn’t know why he lived with it. He didn’t know why they weren’t fighting harder to say _no, this is a family, not a political movement_. It made no sense.

“He’s right,” Dean finally said. “Keep that in mind. And learn how to fight, before you go.”

The old spark of mischievousness came back into her dark eyes, and Dean smiled in relief. “Only if you’re willing to teach me, oh great one.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “My freaking pleasure, young Padawan. Get back to work.”

She cackled, and Dean took the index toward one of the closest tables. He opened it and began at the very beginning, taking care not to touch the thin paper with his finger tips, checking each entry for the words he was looking for.

 _Mundie. Shadowhunter. Valentine_.

The words kept turning themselves over and over in his head, this time interspersed with the conversation he had just had. At this rate he wouldn’t need coffee to get through this stretch of research, no matter how boring it’s going to be.

His first encounter with the word is on a page that said it had been indexed in 1913. Huh, almost in time for the First World War. He took a little bit of paper from the stack of memo pads on the center of the table, writing it down with a pen he miraculously found among the weapons he had stuffed in his bag. The sight of them made him want to curse.

There weren’t any mentions of it until 1999, exactly fifteen years ago, and Dean frowned. There were three entries—and one of them clearly states the White Book. When he checked, on that same year, ‘Valentine’ was indexed, too—and he listed the two entries down.

He found no entries for _Mundies_ , and the closest he got to was _Mundane_. He noted that down, too, and went back to the front desk. Liam was there, but also somebody else—a stranger. Dean had never seen him before, but he was talking with Liam and that meant she must have tested him out—offered a glass of holy water, lent a silver pen for writing, passed a dust circle. And he was inside the library, meaning he got through the wards and sigils carved by the doorjamb and under the carpets.

“Dean!” Liam called, alerting their… guest of his presence, and Dean slowly let his eyes roam the man. No, not man—boy. His age. Maybe a little older—ruffled hair, five o’clock shadow; suit and tie, tan trench coat; he looked like a tax accountant, really, and his only hint of him not being human were his eyes.

They were an ethereal kind of blue, like there was life within them on its own. They were beautiful.

“…is Castiel,” Liam was saying when Dean finally began paying attention to him again. “Castiel Novak, meet Dean Winchester. He looks pretty, but he’s good in a fight,” she finished, and Dean wanted to blush but he couldn’t—his body couldn’t react. It wasn’t like there was something taking control of it or anything, but it’s just—the way Castiel was staring was making everything in his brain short-circuit.

He suddenly remembered the way Jace stared at Simon—all that intensity, all that laser focus, and he found himself feeling uncomfortable with the attention he was being given by this stranger.

“Hi,” Dean finally manages, just as Castiel says, “…I know” in a voice that just made Dean’s knees knock against each other. “I will be going now, Yliaman. Dean,” he said, nodding at Dean as he passed.

Dean blinked after him, before turning to look at Liam. She was _blushing._ “Do you have a _crush_ on him?”

“Do _not_!” she snapped, but the deepening of the color in her cheeks told him otherwise.

“Besides,” he drawled, picking up on an _itty bit_ of information that he found rather interesting. And amusing. Liam watched him warily. “You’ve never let anyone say your whole name out loud before. Why didn’t you correct him? You must have known it was coming out of his mouth.”

She buried her face into her arms on the desk and Dean cackled—he couldn’t let this go, not when it was so much fun. He’s gotta admit, he could understand the crush though. Castiel was intriguing—Dean hasn’t known him five minutes but he was already completely hooked. It was a little scary.

“I’m training myself for a new life,” Liam finally answered, and for a moment, Dean forgot what they were talking about. “And letting people say my name out loud without correcting them is part of that.”

“ _Liam,_ ” Dean said softly, before shaking his head. “Go on home, I’ll keep watch. I’ll be here when you come back tomorrow.”

Liam frowned. “What are you researching about?”

“It’s—just something Charlie and Clary wanted to look up. And I got a little curious.” The lie was smooth as silk on his tongue, but rough as a barbwire in his gut. He has always hated lying, especially not to his friends—thus the evasion of the questions earlier in the car—but this was the only way he could get rid of Liam. “You can lock up.”

Liam looked at him oddly before nodding. “Off you go, then, little Letter Hunter. Good luck.”

“I’m gonna need it,” he muttered as he stared up at the stairs on his way to his first stop. It was going to be a long night.

*.*

It was. Long and tiring and gritty. But he pushed on.

 

**..--..**

 

_Angel eyes, that old devil sent  
They glow unbearably bright…_

“Need I say that this is stupid, when it is most grievously obviously so,” Simon muttered to himself, tired and frustrated as he tore off the notebook page, crumpled it into a ball and chucked it carelessly to the floor, where it joined countless other paper balls—evidence of his lack of prowess today.

He sighed, still frustrated as he stared at the blank page in front of him. He woke up far too early for someone who was a) on a weekend and b) has just finished high school, but when his eyes flew open, he just couldn’t seem to find the right position to go to sleep anymore.

It was a travesty.

He rubbed at his eyes and pulled his earphones off when the music stopped playing. When he checked, he grinned—it was Clary.

“CLARISSA LEWIS,” he boomed into the phone as loudly as he could. “ _YOU. SHALL. NOT. PASS.”_

He put the phone back against his ear to hear cackling and giggling. He knew those sounds _anywhere_ he’d go—the sound of Dean and Clary’s amusement. It was beautiful. He could listen to it every day and call it music.

“We’re picking you up for breakfast,” Clary finally said, “I was going to say we meet up, but lo and behold—the great Dean Winchester beats Clarissa Lewis to the punch.”

“Aw, the sweetness,” Simon muttered, but the answering sound of Clary’s laughter proved his plea to remain unheard useless. “What are you laughing at?”

“It’s nothing, young Padawan. Go get ready.”

He made a sound at the back of his throat that even Dean groaned at. He smiled. “It’s just the two of you?” he asked, even as he stood up and started gathering clothes to change into. “Where’s Charlie?”

“Out with her mom.” It was Dean who answered, and in the silence that followed he could hear the traffic of New York from the microphone of Clary’s phone. It wasn’t an awkward silence, it was just— _silence_.

Because Charlie’s mom had been in a coma since they were twelve.

“Well, okay. Come on up if I’m not down there when you get here,” said Simon, breaking the uncomfortable shell that had clamped down on them. “I’ll get ready.”

“See ya,” he heard Clary call out before he hung up. He changed, as quickly as he could, before walking out of his room. His mom wasn’t around, though she usually wasn’t at this hour—breakfast at eleven, _those rebels_ , he thought—even on weekends.

The whole place looked like an explosion of Jocelyn and Simon Fray— _so a handworker and a writer walk into a place and decide to live together…_ The walls were painted different shades of white and blue and violet—Jocelyn’s tendency to paint _everything_ , and Simon’s need for poetic aesthetic in everything he sees—and the throw pillows were handmade, most of them with quotes from Simon on them. His favorite was the pillow Jocelyn had made for him on his eleventh birthday—it used to be bright red and white, but not it was faded to a dull kind of red and the white was stained. There was a small black strip running horizontally in the middle, and it would almost seem like a normal pillow except for the quote, _I wanna be the very best_.

Just like any teenager around the world, he had gone through a Pokémon phase, and sometimes Jocelyn joked about how he had never grown out of it.

Even Jocelyn’s bookshelf—Simon called it something like a wave. He had arranged the books according to height to fit this picture in his mind of a song being graphed into waves and it was beautiful. He didn’t know what the song was, but whenever he looked at the shelf, he could almost feel the music humming in his bones.

The mantel—

At the mantel sat one of the most important things to Simon. A picture of his father, his only remembrance of him. He looked thoughtful, and at the corner of his eyes were the telltale signs of laughter lines. He'd been a decorated soldier serving overseas. Jocelyn had some of his medals in a small box by her bed.

Jocelyn had gone back to using her maiden name after he died. She never talked about Simon's father, but she kept the box engraved with his initials, J. C, next to her bed. Along with the medals were one or two photos, a wedding ring, and a single lock of blond hair. Sometimes Jocelyn took the box out and opened it and held the lock of hair very gently in her hands before putting it back and carefully locking the box up again.

He has always wished, and now more fervently than ever, that he had something more than that of his father, that his father was actually _here_ —an adult, family he could go to when there wasn’t anyone he could. He had a million questions in his head, but none of them seemed appropriate to ask. Not right now.

He reached towards his mother’s shelf and took a random book—it was a thick paper back—he estimated it had about five hundred pages or something _. Lucky_.

The sound of a key sliding into the lock snapped him out of his thoughts and he stared at Luke, carrying with him into their home a bunch of flattened cardboard boxes.

He dropped them by his foot, straightening his back and reaching up with his arms in a stretch. “For flat boxes those are _heavy_ ,” he said flatly.

Simon smiled, looking over his shoulder at the entrance. “Where’s mom?” he asked. He hasn’t seen her yet—and if Luke was here…

“Parking the truck,” he answered, putting his hand on the small of his back and groaning. Luke had asked Simon last year to stop calling Uncle, because it made him feel old—and because he wasn’t really Simon’s uncle. Simon would be making a joke about his groaning as counterproductive, but Luke cut him off with, “Remind me again why this building has no service elevator?”

Simon grinned. “ _Character_. What are the boxes for?”

Luke’s smile fell. “Your mother wanted to pick up some things,” he said, not looking up at Simon.

Simon gulped nervously— _I don’t think I’m gonna like this,_ he thought. “What things?”

He made a dismissive gesture. _Too dismissive_. “Extra stuff lying around. Getting in the way. You know she never throws anything out. So, what are you up to? Studying?” He finally looked up at Simon—rather, on the back in Simon’s grasp. “Is that for school?”

Simon looked down to it and shook his head. “School’s over, graduation’s in six days. Just took it out of the bookshelf.”

Luke’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.

Simon rolled his eyes. “I’m going out to meet Clary. _And Dean,_ ” he added, seeing the spark in Luke’s eyes.

He snorted. Simon shook his head and turned to put the book back on the shelf, where he got it, but a flash of the title—or something—made him hesitate. “…Luke?” he said haltingly.

“Yes?” Luke murmured, “there you are,” and Simon watched as he brought out a tape gun, turning it over with a smug smile on his face.

“I didn’t get to wait for mom’s answer but—what would you if you saw something no one else could?” he asked, holding the book on both hands and staring at it, as if the letters of the title would rearrange themselves into an answer.

He jumped, startled, when he heard a crash. Luke dropped the tape. He knelt down to pick it up, saying, “You mean, if I were to witness a crime, that sort of thing?” He wasn’t looking at Simon.

“No I mean—it’s like… it’s invisible to other people but you,” Simon answered, not knowing how it sounded. _It wasn’t invisible to Dean._ “Well, it _was_ , I mean Dean saw it—”

He remembered Jace. Alec. The girl. The way they smirked at him mockingly when neither the bouncer nor Clary could see them. The way they looked at him and Dean and called them _mundies_ like it was an insult, even though neither of them knew what it actually meant.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he said again, “but… there’s like. A— _second sight_? That sort of thing?” _Too much video games, Fray. “_ Or a third eye, I don’t know.”

Luke’s head snapped up to Simon, pinning him down and making him feel frozen and cornered. “ _What_?” he asked, and it made Simon feel more ridiculous than it usually would have. And then Luke smiled, strained but affectionate. “Too much video games, don’t you think?” he said dismissively. _Again, too dismissively_.

Simon sat down on the couch and dropped the book onto the coffee table, the sunlight from the window glinting off of the cover and blinding him for a second. Simon was spared of answering by the door opening a second time, welcoming Jocelyn Fray into their midst. She handed Luke a bunch of keys before turning to Simon.

His mother was a beautiful woman. Slim and compact, she reminded Simon endlessly of superheroes and superwomen and warriors and protectors. She was affectionate, brave—her hair was a beautiful shade of red, reaching down to her waist in graceful waves, in contrast to the light blond curls gracing Simon’s own head. She was a natural artists—her creative juices seemed to flow _endlessly_.

Simon wished he had that working for him, but not everyone could have what they want. Simon looked _nothing_ like his mother—or his father, for that matter—he was lanky and thin and his hair was three shades lighter than his father’s. Charlie sometimes joked it was almost white in the right light, and Simon would agree. Where his parents’ eyes were both beautiful, solid green, his looked like a pond filled with algae.

Jocelyn told him it must be recessive genes—something Simon only finally understood in high school Biology.

“Thanks for bringing the boxes up,” she told Luke, smiling at him. He didn’t return the gesture, something Luke _never did_. Until today. _Mundie. Knew too much already_. "Sorry it took me so long to find a space. There must be a million people at the park today—"

“Mom,” Simon interrupted, speaking slowly, “what are the boxes for?”

Jocelyn looked nervous as she met Simon’s eyes, and if things weren’t already strange, he’d think there was something off about the gesture. Luke sent Simon a glance before gently pushing Jocelyn forward, hand on her back. She sent Luke one of those _glances_ before joining Simon on the couch. _Say it,_ that expression said.

“We’re going on vacation,” she finally said. “We’re spending time at Luke’s estate.”

Luke’s expression shuttered, as if a window suddenly snapped shut right at your face. There was a moment of silence as Simon simply stared at his mom.

“Wait—you mean me, too,” Simon realized, looking from his mom to Luke, who was staring out the window. He wondered absently what was upsetting him—he loved the farmhouse, and loved it even more whenever Jocelyn volunteered to visit with him. “For how long?”

“All of summer,” Jocelyn answered. “We’ll come back on your graduation day and go back. I brought the boxes in case you wanted to pack up your books, notebooks—”

“I can’t do that!” he finally said, forcing himself to stay calm because _I’m not going to yell at my mom_. “I—Clary and I and the others have _plans_ for this week, mom, Charlie and I are going to Toy Con and I have summer camp—”

“I’m sorry about the camp. The others can be cancelled. Charlie will understand, and so would Clary and Dean.”

“But that’s not fair!” Simon cried. He turned to Luke. “Tell her—tell her it’s not fair, Luke!”

But he looked away from him, still looking upset—it was strange. And it made something at the pit of Simon’s stomach writhe. This was nothing good. “It’s your mom’s call, Simon.”

“I have to get away, Simon,” his mother said, not allowing him to talk back. "I need the peace, the quiet, to paint. And money is tight right now—”

“Why don’t you sell some of dad’s stocks?” he asked, keeping his anger and frustration down with effort. “That’s what you’ve always done. And—mom, I can stay here, you can get away—I can find a job, _work at Dean’s dad’s garage_ —”

“ _No_!” his mother interrupted, and word coming out of her as if pulled by a string. Her tone made Simon jump. “I’ll pay you back for camp and the Con, but you can’t stay here. I know you can take care of yourself but it isn’t optional. Anything could happen.”

 _Like what?!_ “What could happen?” Simon asked.

There was a loud sound. When he looked, he was surprised to find Luke had knocked over one of the framed pictures against the wall. He still looked upset and, after straightening up, he looked solemn when he turned to them again. “I’m leaving.”

Jocelyn stood up. “Wait—”

Before Luke could open the door, though, it flew open and made Jocelyn scream. “ _God_!” Luke exploded, stepping back to avoid getting hit in the face.

“I usually go by Dean,” said Dean Winchester, standing at the entrance with a frown on his face. “God would be one sexy fucker if he looked like this.”

“How long have you been there?” Jocelyn asked, her voice wavering. It made guilt churn in Simon’s gut, but he ignored it and stood up.

“I just literally got here,” Dean answered, and if Simon looked closely, it was obvious, too. He looked like he ran up the stairs in a rush. “I was here to pick Simon up—should I… go?”

“That’s—” Jocelyn began, but Simon cut her off.

“Not a bad idea,” he said, looking at Dean, not at his mom. “But I’m coming with. Come on, brunch awaits.”

“Simon—”

“Never mind, mom. I’ll pack up when I come back later, okay?” he said tiredly, pushing past her to Dean. He closed the door behind him, shutting Luke and Jocelyn inside. He leant against the door, looking at the space between his shoes.

“You alright?” Dean asked quietly, and Simon managed a small smile. It was wiped off though when he heard his mom and Luke talking inside.

“… _Bane_ ,” his mother was saying in a low hiss. “I’ve been calling him and calling him for the past three weeks. His voice mail says he’s in Tanzania. What am I supposed to do?”

Who was _Bane_? His mother had never mentioned any friend named _Bane_ before. Why would his mom be trying to contact someone who can afford to visit _Tanzania_?

“Jocelyn,” Luke said, voice just as low, but just as clear in the wood of the door. When he glanced at him, it was obvious that Dean was just as confounded with this conversation as he was. He should feel like this was an invasion of his privacy, but he couldn’t find it in himself. “You can’t keep going to him forever.”

 _What_?

“But Simon—”

“Isn’t _Jonathan_ ,” Luke hissed, and Simon would cringe at his tone if he could. "You've never been the same since it happened, but Simon _isn't_ Jonathan."

 _What does my father have to do with this?_ Simon thought, looking at Dean again with wide eyes. He was staring fixedly at the door.

“I can’t keep him at home, not let him go out. He’s seventeen, he won’t put up with it.”

“Of course he won’t!” Luke sounded really angry. _Furious_. “He’s not a pet, he’s a teenager! Almost an adult!”

“If we were out of the city...”

“Talk to him, Jocelyn.” There was resolution and steel in Luke’s voice as he said this. “I mean it.”

“Let’s go,” Dean suddenly said, grabbing Simon’s arm and walking him to the front door, where Clary was waiting, looking anxious.

“You two okay?” she asked, linking her arms with theirs as they turned for the stairs.

“Yeah,” Dean answered.

“What was the wait for?” she asked, looking at Dean and Simon and back again.

Dean and Simon exchanged looks. Dean’s expression clearly said, _your time to shine_. He was right, of course. “We’ll tell you in the car,” he said. Her gave them both a strange look, but bit it and together they walked down the stairs.

The brownstone in which the Frays resided had once been the possession of a single wealthy family. Shades of its former grandeur were still evident in the curving staircase, the chipped marble entryway floor, and the wide single-paned skylight overhead. When he was younger, Simon and friends would pretend that they were living in the castle, with Dean and Clary as the king and queen and Simon as the prince—and the damsel in distress. Charlie became the hero when she joined their group. Simon and his mother’s fellow tenant, an elderly woman who ran a psychic's shop out of her apartment, shared the building and lives downstairs. She hardly ever came out of it, though customer visits were infrequent. A gold plaque fixed to the door proclaimed her to be madame DOROTHEA, SEERESS AND PROPHETESS.

The half open door spilled the heavy, thick scent of incense and the sound of soft conversation.

Dean smirked at it. “Well, looks like the resident prophet’s business is booming. It’s quite impossible to find good prophet work these days,” he said, waving at Chuck, the tenant who had just moved into the apartment on the other side of the foyer.

Clary and Simon waved at him, too—because just like Madame Dorothea, he rarely left his apartment. Where the Seeress’s apartment spilled the scent of incense though, Chuck’s gave a waft of stale alcohol and dust and mildew. It was all Simon could do not to gag. Chuck was a chronic alcoholic, but he has never caused anyone harm or trouble, which was the only reason Madame Dorothea allowed him to stay in the first place.

“Please be nice, Dean,” Clary scolded, and by the cringe Simon was pretty sure she pinched him. “You’re a high school graduate.”

“I thought that gave me the right to be wittier,” Dean whined, his other hand reaching up to rub at his arm. “Doesn’t it, Simon?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but three things happened at the exact same time: the door to Madame Dorothea’s door burst open with an explosion of smoke and fog, which made Dean and Clary stop moving, pulling Simon to stop as well; this… gorgeous creature— _it couldn’t be human, it’s impossible_ —came out of the door and sent him a grin, and Simon blinked because his teeth were all sharp, but he was still _beautiful_ ; and then the guy was gone.

Simon stumbled, just barely catching himself on the banister and Dean’s arm. “You alright?” Dean asked.

“Did you see that?” he hissed at him, eyes roving the foyer for the man. He had vanished.

“I don’t know what I saw, Simon. Get up.”

Simon straightened up and waved off Clary’s fretting. “I’m _fine_ , Lewis, don’t worry about me.”

“You look like you’re about to faint,” she said testily. “And you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Like you did last night.”

“I’m _fine_ , Clary,” he said, his tone taking an exasperated note. He threw an arm around her shoulder. “Come on. I was promised sustenance.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Alright, kids. Please don’t trip on your way down the stairs. It is very dangerous.”

Simon caught the look in Dean’s eyes, though, and forced himself to cackle at the joke.

 

*.*

 

“I just can’t believe she’s doing this,” Simon said for the umpteenth time, feeling miserable as he took a small piece of his cinnamon roll into his mouth. “She was so happy when I told her I got into camp. It had been my dream for so long! And now, after years of proving to her I can be responsible and great, she sends me into exile. I feel like an excommunicated priest.”

Dean snorted. “Okay, first of all, you’re not even Roman Catholic,” he said, “and second, it is unfair. But… have you told her what you planned on doing for Culmination night, if you go to camp?”

Simon frowned at him. “No. Why does it matter?”

“Because you’re going to perform for _her_ ,” Clary answered, rolling her eyes. “If she knew that, she’d probably reconsider and let you go to camp.”

“Maybe.” Simon frowned. This wasn’t like his mom. She knew how much he’d wanted to go the Atenean Band Camp—he’d wanted to since his first ever recital, when one of the guest performers was a senior at the camp. They had a limit, though—only high school graduating students could join, and that was because they were offering scholarships to the best performers at the end of Culmination night.

But he also knew that his mother has always been decisive. She makes her bed and lies in it without question—that was something that has always fascinated and amazed Simon. He didn’t know how she could choose just one so confidently without having to second guess herself. He wasn’t like that.

“Hey,” Clary said softly. “This isn’t going to be permanent—you never know, this could be the thing that leads you to bigger, better chances.”

“I never pegged you to be the ‘windows and doors’ kind of opportunist, Clary,” Dean mused, looking at her with squinted eyes.

“I’m not,” she said airily, waving off his sarcasm with a grin of her own before turning her attention back to Simon. “Seriously though, we all know your mom. Don’t let this keep you from doing what you want.”

“Pack your instruments up and keep Luke and your mom awake until they get headaches,” Dean added. “And besides, we can always drive to you. I miss your uncle’s farmhouse, too.”

“Not my uncle,” Simon muttered, “but thanks. And you’re right. Why am I so angry?”

Clary’s smile is understanding. “You’ve mentioned it—you wanted to go to summer camp for years, Simon. Now that you can’t, you’re frustrated.”

Simon groaned. “You’re taking psychology, aren’t you? For college, I mean,” he said, face buried in his hands.

Clary cackled.

And then Dean said, “Hey, Charlie just texted. She wants to meet for lunch. Do you want to go home, Simon?”

He hesitated, before checking his own phone. No calls from Jocelyn yet. He shook his head. “I’ll let things simmer down for a while. I’ll talk to her then.”

Dean nodded and stood, quickly followed by Simon and Clary. They didn’t have to drive to where Charlie wanted to meet—it was a hole-in-the-wall establishment that Dean had introduced them to when they were freshmen looking for delicious food and good savings.

And so they walked.

For some stupid reason, Simon was thinking, _this is our exodus_.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey guys,” Charlie greeted. _Oudéteros_ was simple but cozy, and seriously not what you’d be expecting to be hidden inside a decrepit looking building. Simon had researched the place’s history the first time Dean had dragged them to the diner. The building had a lot of violent history—it started out as a family home, and then became an asylum for the bereaved the terrorized after the original owners were killed by their daughter. When the asylum burnt down—killing the twenty odd residences—it was abandoned for about fifty years, before it was bought in the 1980s by an opportunistic businessman.

He opened a library. He was dead now.

 _Oudéteros_ ’s owner ( _some weird hippy, most probably,_ Simon thought with a quiet snigger, _what’s with the name?_ ) bought the old, dilapidated building from the businessman’s wife, and set up shop in 1990. It’s been in business for two decades now—the longest anything has ever stood on the building without murder or arson.

Charlie had chosen one of the booths by the far wall—the one with murals depicting different dimensions and creatures, but after last night, Simon found himself not as amazed as he used to be by all these.

They sat with her in the booth, the two girls beside each other on one side and the boys on another. “How are things going?”

“I’m being excommunicated,” Simon said flatly as soon as the question was out of her mouth.

“I thought you were Jewish,” Charlie muttered, and Clary smacked her arm. She laughed. “Alright, joking aside—why? What did you do? It this about last night?”

Simon rolled his eyes. “I wish it was,” he answered, “but it’s not. We’re going to the farmhouse.”

“When?”

“Today, if my mom could get away with it I’m sure.”

She was quiet. “But what about the con?” she asked, her bottom lip sticking out in a pout. It reminded him of Clary. “We’ve been saving for that the whole year!”

“I know,” Simon groaned. “It’s unfair.”

“Well—”

She was interrupted by the arrival of the waitress, who took their orders—Clary made a snide remark about how boys are pigs when it comes to food. Simon couldn’t really pay attention, though—was it him, or was that waitress smiling at them with _needlepoint teeth?_

He gulped and looked away, giving his order and flipping the menu over before giving it to the waitress. He looked around himself surreptitiously, biting his lip. And—there.

By the corner was a girl with. With _pixie wings_ —he wanted to get out. He had to be going crazy. Maybe this exile his mother was putting him into was worth it. Maybe it was for the best.

“You are a _pig_ ,” Clary told Dean again, the sharpness of her tone breaking Simon out of his thoughts and bringing him back to their table.

“We’re growing boys,” Dean drawled back. “We need all sustenance we can put our hands on.”

Clary rolled her eyes. Their conversation flowed easy and quick, and the impending threat of Simon’s departure seemed to bring out side of his friends he almost never sees: their affectionate sides. Charlie and Dean usually traded scathing remarks about each other or other people, but what they were doing now—if Simon didn’t know any better, he’d call what they were doing _flirting_.

And Clary, who usually acted like the mom they always needed, was letting them get away with some things she would otherwise had hit them in the backs of the head for. It was great.

The lull in their conversation was interrupted by Clary standing up to go to the bathroom and Charlie answering a call, grinning at them and saying it was Gilda. Dean frowned as he followed her with his eyes, but they quickly came back to Simon as soon as both of the girls were out of earshot.

They stared at each other, and Dean asked, “You okay?” at the same time Simon said, “you look like you haven’t slept all night.”

Dean sighed. He opened his mouth to talk, but Simon raised a hand to interrupt him. His phone was ringing. He didn’t look up at Dean again as he answered it.

“Mom?” he asked.

“Simon,” his mother answered, obviously relieved, “baby, sorry for springing the vacation on you so suddenly. Can you come home now? So we can talk about it more?”

Simon frowned. “I’ll go home after lunch, mom,” he answered, looking at the half-empty plates surrounding him. “We just met up with Charlie.”

She hesitated. “Okay. See you later.”

“See you later, mom.”

He hung up, and when he looked up, Dean was looking at him. His face told Simon everything.

“So,” Dean said, “I guess she isn’t dropping the vacation?”

Simon scowled. “I don’t think she would. It’s so unfair!” He put his head into his hands, ignoring when who he thought was Clary rubbed his head. A few moments later Dean left for the comfort room, too, just as Simon raised his head to see Charlie come back to the table as well.

She was biting her lip.

“What is it?” Simon asked, because that was the only nervous tick of Charlie’s that he knew of. _What is it?_

“Nothing,” she answered, sighing with defeat. “It’s just that Gilda called to invite us to her parents’ cottage down south… and she wanted you guys to go, too.”

Simon looked down. “You guys can go,” he said softly, eyes flicking up to Charlie’s, and then Clary’s, face. “I’m going to be okay. Dean promised he’d drive you guys upstate to me once in a while.”

Clary was shaking her head even before he finished his sentence. “No, no we can’t go without you there. It would be unfair!” she said, glaring at him and challenging him to say something else. He didn’t.

“Besides,” Charlie piped up, “I’ve already told her we can’t go. She’s volunteering on coming to help you move.”

Simon frowned. “Help me move?”

The redhead—Charlie, of course—rolled her eyes. “ _We’re_ —” she gestured to Clary and to the comfort room, just vaguely—“helping you go upstate. We’ll just tell your mom.”

The frown fell from Simon’s face, replaced with a relieved and affectionate smile as he looked from one of his friends to the other. “Thanks, guys. I mean it.”

Charlie cackled. “Go get us some coffee, doofus. We’ll call your mom when you get back.”

Simon grinned and stood up, walking towards the diner’s small café. It was one of the things that made Oudéteros so popular, especially to students. Not only was their good, their pricing was awesome _and they offered a café_. It was the perfect place for hanging out and studying, all at once.

There were only two people by the bar when he got there, and one of them was—

He backtracked, but too late.

She’s seen him.

“Simon Fray!” Bela Talbot called, making Simon cringe at the sound of her voice. _And that stupid accent._ He had never been a violent person, especially not to women—his mother raised him to respect women, and Clary and Charlie taught him to fear them. Notwithstanding the fact that he loved their mothers like they were his own.

But ever since moving into their small town, _Bela Talbot_ has brought out in him his very, very vengeful side. She was evil. Pure, pure evil—

_And she had a crush on Dean Winchester._

Which wasn’t a surprise, because if you’ve seen Dean, you’ll understand. But he just cannot, for the life of him, comprehend how such a vile creature—someone who knocked over the case holding their frogs for Biology; or that one time that same _someone_ ‘accidentally’ set fire to the Chem lab _with Simon’s stuff still inside_ —could think for a moment she has a chance with the town’s golden boy.

God, it was strange.

“Bela,” he greeted, pasting a smile onto his face as he took a deep breath and walked forward, leaning on the bar. The barista was giving him a look. He gave their orders, and then turned to his… _acquaintance_. She was looking over at their booth.

“And where,” she drawled, turning her sharp eyes to him, “pray tell, is the wonderful Dean Winchester?”

 _The way you said wonderful just made me think it’s not wonderful at all,_ he wanted to snarl at her, but he tamped it down. “He’s not here,” he answered instead, as cheerfully as he could manage. “I think he said he was out with his brothers.”

She raised a cold eyebrow. It made him shiver. “Do not _lie_ , Fray, I know that where you three are he’d be there as well.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Well, since you seem to _know_ him so well…”

Bela stepped toward him. “You know,” she said lowly, “sometimes I wonder if there’s _something between you_.”

If there was something in Simon’s mouth, he would have choked on it. Fortunately, he wasn’t eating anything—but he _did_ hear something else. A snort. A short, derisive noise that could only be the sound of someone trying not to laugh.

He looked, and there—sat Jace, still in the same outfit as he was last night, staring at him with amused eyes. There was a hood covering his blond head, and when he raised his hand to wave at Simon, a ring glittered on his finger, catching Simon’s gaze.

He glanced at Bela, who was squinting at where he was looking and then turning back to him, again and again, but the blank look on her face told him she couldn’t see him. _But I see you,_ he thought to Jace, who was already standing and walking away. _Just like that_.

 _So I_ wasn’t _imagining last night,_ he thought blankly, _though… Dean did see it. And this morning, that guy…_

“Fray!” he heard someone call, but he couldn’t care because—

_WHY AM I FOLLOWING THE SOCIOPATH?!_

Simon threw the backdoors open, fearing for a moment that _maybe I imagined everything. Maybe last night wasn’t real. Maybe he isn’t even_ here _—_ but he soon realized that his fears were unfounded when he saw Jace slouched against the opposite wall of the alley, and Dean standing between him and Simon, facing Jace.

“Why are you following us?” Dean said, in a tone that made Simon think he’s been asking that question for several times now. Dean has never liked repeating himself for anybody.

Jace looked at him, squinting, before glancing at Simon. His eyes, shining gold in the daylight, were amused and a little condescending. “Who said I was following you?”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Duh, Dean,” he said, “even sociopaths get hungry.” He glared at Jace as he moved forward. “Seriously, though, we are _not_ impressed by the stalking—”

“And harassing,” Dean muttered petulantly, when Simon was close to him. He made sure to keep Dean between him and Jace though, because… _hello, sociopath_. He sent Dean a questioning look, but continued with his sentence anyway.

“—and _harassing,_ ” he shot to Jace. “So. What’s with the stalker vibes? And the eavesdropping. Not cool, dude. Maybe we should just call the police.”

“And tell them what?” Jace asked witheringly. "That invisible people are bothering you? Trust me, little boys, the police aren't going to arrest someone they can't see."

“Our _names_ ,” Simon snapped testily, “are _Simon and Dean_.” He was honestly getting tired of the power play. “And _why can’t other people see you_?”

"You don't know much, do you?" he said. There was a lazy contempt in his gold eyes. "You seem to be a mundane like any other mundane, yet you can see me. It's a conundrum."

“What’s a mundane?” Simon asked. “You called us _mundies_ that last night—”

“Muggles,” Dean said, and Simon looked at him, surprised. He had honestly forgotten he even existed. _Weird_. “Just in real life, this time.”

Simon blinked at him. “Harry Potter _is real life_ ,” he said flatly, before something dawned on him. “How do you know that?”

He turned to Jace, squinting at him. “According to the Ministry of Magic, you are not allowed to let Muggles know of your existence. I don’t believe you are seventeen yet, are you?” He glanced at Dean again. “So if we’re Muggles, you’re—what, a wizard?”

Jace frowned. “No.”

“You’re human,” Dean said, his tone considering as he squinted at Jace, looking him down. “ _Right_?” Simon didn’t like the hesitancy in his voice. It wasn’t like him to be hesitant. He was usually right about first impressions.

"I am," he said. "But I'm not like you." There was no defensiveness in his tone, as if he didn't care if they believed him or not.

After everything that’s happened, he was beginning to lean on the _believe him_ side of things. Still, Simon frowned. “Did you get bitten by a radioactive spider or something?”

The look of incomprehension on his face was almost enough to make him laugh. “And Hodge thought you might be _dangerous_ ,” he muttered, frowning at the both of them. The way he said _dangerous_ made Simon think he was quietly laughing at the notion. He might be. “But if you are, you certainly don't know it."

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’ve already said we don’t know anything,” he said flatly, and Simon nodded in agreement. “ _Though_ you did say last night _we knew too much_. Whatever the hell that meant.”

“And we say you kill someone last night,” Simon added. He flinched at the sharp look both Jace and Dean sent him, but it had slipped out without his permission. “We saw—” he stopped. _We saw the blood, we saw you drive a knife up his ribs. I watched him… it… disappear._

"I may be a killer," Jace said, "but I know what I am. Can you say the same?"

Dean rolled his eyes. “So let’s state the facts. You,” he said, pointing at Jace, “are some… some… demon killer,” he said. “Shadowhunter.” Jace’s eyes flashed, but he remained quiet. “And we,” he gestured at himself, and then pointed at Simon, “are humans. _Mundanes_. I think yes, we can say the same.”

“I don’t think so,” Jace murmured, eyes trained on Dean. He had an intense look on his face, as if Dean was a puzzle he was trying to figure out. The way Dean and Jace were staring at each other was making Simon uncomfortable. Jace narrowed his eyes. “You’re not being completely honest, are you, little boy?”

Dean tensed, and Simon decided to jump in before any _violent_ thing could happen. “Who’s Hodge?” he asked quickly, stepping in front of Dean.

"My tutor. And,” he paused, sending Dean a scathing— _suspicious—there’s something—_ look over Simon’s shoulder, “I wouldn't be so quick to brand myself as ordinary, if I were you." He leaned forward. "Let me see your right hand."

Simon instinctively pulled his right hand closer to himself. “ _Why_? Would you leave us alone if we do?”

“Certainly.” His sounded highly amused. _Asshole_.

Simon rolled his eyes at the same time he heard Dean say, “Let’s go, Simon.”

“No,” Simon said, surprising himself. “I’ll take your word for it.” He was about to give Simon his right hand, but Dean shoved him back and approached Jace first.

Whatever he told the _other_ blond kid, it made him tense. Jace approached Simon with a frown on his face. Simon stretched his right hand wordlessly, allowing Jace to turn it over in his—the short hairs on the fingers, the mole between the knuckles of his third and fourth fingers. He was surprised at the gentle touch he was receiving—he would never have expected it from someone who killed—

 _A monster,_ a voice in the back of his head whispered.

Nothing." He sounded almost disappointed. "You're not left-handed, are you?"

"No. Why?"

He released her hand with a shrug. He gave Dean—who had approached them wordlessly and silently— _or maybe I just didn’t notice him—_ when Jace was examining his hand. "Most Shadowhunter children get Marked on their right hands—or left, if they're left-handed like I am—when they're still young. It's a permanent rune that lends an extra skill with weapons." He showed him the back of his left hand; it looked perfectly normal to him.

Simon frowned. “I don’t see anything.”

“Let your mind relax,” he suggested. “You already know the truth of what you’re seeing. Let it come to you naturally.”

 _You sound like mom when she was trying to teach me how to art,_ he wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. And—it jumped out at him suddenly. A black design like an eye across the back of his hand. “A tattoo?” he asked.

“Mark,” Jace corrected. “They’re runes, burned into our skin.”

“But it works like magic,” he said, studying Jace’s arms—there weren’t any marks on it like there were last night, except for the silvery patterns of scar tissue left behind. _Burned into our skin._ “Like, magic ink on your skin, or something.”

“ _Marks_ ,” Jace said again, enunciating the single syllable slowly, but there was no contempt in his tone this time at least, “do different things. Some are permanent but the majority vanishes when they've been used."

"And they make you handle weapons better?" Simon asked. He looked at his friend. “Do you buy this?” He found this hard to believe, though perhaps no more hard to believe than the existence of zombies. _Do zombies exist?_ He decided to ask. “Do zombies exist?”

“Yes,” both Dean and Jace answered, and he reeled in surprise.

“You’re agreeing on something,” he said with a grin. _They’re agreeing on something, and I find it sexy that they agree on something. It’s weird_.

Before either Simon or Dean could say anything else, Jace said, “Time for us to go.”

“Us?” Simon repeated. “If I recall correctly, you promised to leave us alone. And we have not agreed on going _anywhere_ in the past half hour of our conversation.”

“Well, I lied,” Jace said flatly, without any ounce of embarrassment. “Anyway, Hodge said I should take you to the Institute with me. He’d like to talk to you.”

“Why should we go with you?” Simon asked, at the same time Dean said, “Why would _Hodge_ want to talk to us?”

Jace looked at Simon, and then Dean, and then rolled his eyes. “Because you know the truth now. And what we said last night was true. You two know too much already, which makes things dangerous.”

“I thought we weren’t dangerous,” both Simon and Dean said flatly.

“There’s not been a mundane who knows about us in over a hundred years,” Jace recited, as if he was reading from a book. Or the _Holy Bible_. “Now, there are two.”

“About _us_?” Simon asked. “What—what exactly _do_ you do, you—” he glanced at Dean. They’ve both heard the term last night, but he’s used it today, too “—Shadowhunters?”

Jace shook his head. “We kill demons,” he said. “Though if you ask Downworlders, they have… less flattering names to call us.”

“Downworlders?” Simon asked, testing the word out in his mouth.

"The Night Children. Warlocks. The fey. The magical folk of this dimension."

Simon shook his head. "Don't stop there. I suppose there are also, what, vampires and werewolves and zombies?"

“We’ve already established the existence of zombies. And, yes, the Night Children and the Children of the Moon do exist.”

“ _Vampires_ ,” Simon enunciated, “ _werewolves_. Calling them ‘Night Children’ and ‘Children of the Moon’ is—over the top, isn’t it?”

Jace just nodded. Simon was surprised he didn’t say anything about it. In the time he’s known Jace ( _it isn’t like you’ve known him for years, Simon, you’ve only had what, two conversations?_ ) he had come off as highly argumentative, and any agreement of any sort felt like a success.  “Hodge will explain everything, when you talk to him.” He sent Dean another look. “You can come willingly, or unwillingly.”

Simon opened his mouth to answer, but he was interrupted by his phone ringing. It was his mom. “It’s my mom,” he told Dean. His friend nodded, but he wasn’t sure if it was an encouragement to answer or a mere acknowledgment of fact. _I don’t need his permission,_ he thought, but then he sent a glance to Jace. _Maybe in this case_. He frowned at the screen. It stopped ringing, and then started again. Guilt writhed at the pit of his stomach—it wasn’t like him not to answer his phone on the first few rings, and he didn’t need Dean’s—or Jace’s—permission to talk to his mom. _She must really be freaking out_.

He raised his phone to his ear. "Mom?"

"Oh, Simon—oh, thank God." A sharp prickle of alarm ran up Simon's spine. His mother sounded panicked. _She never panics. Never. Not even when she needs to, she stays calm._ "Listen to me—"

“It's all right, Mom. I'm fine. I'm on my way home—"

"No!" Terror scraped Jocelyn's voice raw. It made Simon freeze. "Don't come home! Do you understand me, Simon? Don't you dare come home. Go to the Winchester's. Go straight to Dean's house and stay there until I can—" A noise in the background interrupted her: the sound of something falling, shattering, something heavy striking the floor— “You’ll be okay there.”

"Mom!" Simon shouted into the phone. "Mom, are you all right?" Something about the way she said _you’ll be okay there—_

A loud buzzing noise came from the phone. Simon's mother's voice cut through the static: "Just promise me you won't come home. Go to Dean's and call Luke—tell him that he's found me—tell _John—_ " Her words were drowned out by a heavy crash like splintering wood.

"Who's found you? Mom, did you call the police? What’s happening? Did you—"

His frantic question was cut off by a noise Simon would never forget—a harsh, slithering noise, followed by a thump. Simon heard his mother draw in a sharp breath before speaking, her voice eerily calm: "I love you, Simon."

The phone went dead.

“Mom?” he shouted. “Mom!” But the call has ended. His mother never ended her phone calls that way.

“What’s happened?” Jace asked lowly. “Simon—”

But Simon wasn’t listening. He redialed as fast as he could with his shaking hand—shaking with fear, and anger, and panic, _mom, what, what happened, mom_ —but the call went straight to voicemail. “Damnit!”

“Simon!” Dean yelled, but it sounded faraway to him. Just a gurgle, something that he registered but couldn’t understand. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Simon was more than ready to hyperventilate. This couldn’t be happening. This _couldn’t be happening_.

What’s happening?

_What’s happening?_

A crash snapped him out of his thoughts and he looked on shock to find his phone, smashed, on the concrete by his feet. He stopped a sob. “I need to get home,” he said, reaching out to clutch at Dean’s jacket.

“Dean, my mom’s said—there’s _something wrong_ —I have to get home, tell the girls, I have to go—” he paused “—she said to tell your dad he—he found her.”

“Who’s _he_?” Dean asked quickly, just as bewildered as he was.

“I don’t—I don’t know! Please, please Dean—”

“Go home,” Dean ordered. “I’ll take care of the girls. _Go home_.”

Simon bobbed his head in agreement and obedience before sprinting to the entrance of the alley. He was in the middle of the city. He could get home in fifteen minutes if he ran— _fifteen minutes he might not have, mom_ —

But he ran, turned down the street that was the shortest route, and pushed himself to the limit.

When he paused five minutes later to catch his breath, he looked behind him, confused as to why he was expecting someone to be following him. There was no one there.

*.*

Summer mid-afternoons were always the temperature peak in New York, and the run home had made Simon feel like he was stuck in a curtain of humidity. His shirt stuck to his back and sweat was running in rivulets down his temples and cheeks. He had to keep stopping to wipe condensation off his glasses to avoid tripping.

He was stopped by a red light one turn away from his block, and he anxiously jumped on the balls of his feet as he waited for traffic to wheeze by. He was off like a bolt the moment the light turned green. He ignored the blast of a horn behind him, yelling “IT’S GREEN!” as he ran.

He turned to his street and ran into the building. The overhead light had burned out, and the foyer was in darkness. The shadows seemed full of secret movement. He had to pause to see where he was going, but with a shiver, he went on upstairs.

“And just where do you think you're going?" said a voice, stopping Simon mid-step and making him almost fall flat on his nose on the stairs. _Not a pretty sight_.

Simon whirled. "What—" The last two days were weighing so very heavily on him, all the new information and the _seeing things others can’t_ thing—his eyes were finally adjusting to the dark, and he could see the shape of a large armchair Madame Dorothea—or someone, he couldn’t find it in himself to believe she would go through such lengths—must have drawn up in front of her closed door. The old woman was wedged into it like an overstuffed cushion. In the dimness Simon could see only the round shape of her face, the white lace fan in her hand, the dark, yawning gap of her mouth when she spoke. "Your mother," Dorothea said, "has been making a god awful racket up there. What's she doing? Moving furniture?"

Simon smiled, but it was strained. “Yeah, she’s planning on going on vacation.”

"And the stairwell light's burned out, did you notice?" Dorothea rapped her fan against the arm of the chair. She was talking as if Simon hasn’t even spoken. _Or what if she can’t hear me_? he asked himself. "Can't your mother get her boyfriend in to change it?"

"Luke isn't—"

"The skylight needs washing too. It's filthy. No wonder it's nearly pitch-black in here. It’s the middle of the day, too.”

 _Luke is_ NOT _the landlord, or my mother’s boyfriend_ , Simon wanted to say, but didn't. This was typical of his and his mother’s elderly neighbor. Once she got Luke to come around and change the light bulb, she'd ask him to do a hundred other things—pick up her groceries, grout her shower. Once she'd made him chop up an old sofa with an axe so she could get it out of the apartment without taking the door off the hinges.

Simon sighed. "I'll ask."

"You'd better." Dorothea snapped her fan shut with a flick of her wrist. “Run along now.”

He glanced at the door on the other side of the stairs, as if expecting that to open, too, but thankfully, Chuck remained steadfast in being asocial and the wood remained closed.

He did. But he didn’t even get two steps in before he heard her call, “ _And tell that mother of yours to make less a noise!_ ”

He shook his head.

He thought he heard Madame Dorothea talk again, but he couldn’t concentrate. The sense of _wrong, wrong, wrongwrongwrong_ he had been feeling since the phone call increased a thousand fold as he reached their apartment door. He took out his key, but he found it was going to be useless—the door was unlocked, spilling into the entry a sliver of light from the overhead bulb Luke had insisted they put a year or so ago.

He pushed it open and stepped inside slowly, haltingly, looking around for clues. _To what_ , he had no idea. His mom’s things were on the table where she usually left them when she got home. The door to the living room was wide open, and even from his vantage point Simon could see that all the lights were open—in daylight.

“Mom?” Simon called out. “Mom, I’m home.”

Silence. He went into the living room. Both windows were open, yards of gauzy white curtains blowing in the breeze like restless ghosts. It seemed like such a normal day, where he would find his mom sitting by the couch painting, or reading one of her paperbacks, but that wasn’t what he found.

The cushions had been ripped from the sofa and scattered around the room. Some were torn lengthwise, cotton innards spilling onto the floor. The bookshelves had been tipped over, their contents scattered. The piano bench laid on its side, gaping open like a wound, Jocelyn's beloved music books spewing out. His mom wouldn’t have had let that happen.

 _She wouldn’t have had let that happen_.

Most terrifying were the paintings. Every single one had been cut from its frame and ripped into strips, which were scattered across the floor. It must have been done with a knife—canvas was almost impossible to tear with your bare hands. The empty frames looked like bones picked clean. Simon cried out—the pain of seeing such beautiful masterpieces— _childhood, life, mom, mommy_ —destroyed almost physical. He felt a scream rising up in his chest: "Mom!" he yelled. "Where are you? Mommy!"

He hasn’t called Jocelyn _mommy_ since he was nine years old, when Clary Lewis started talking to him and he felt like he had finally grown up. He was a child again.

Heart pumping, he raced into the kitchen. It was empty, the cabinet doors open, a smashed bottle of Tabasco sauce spilling peppery red liquid onto the linoleum. Her knees felt like bags of water. He knew she should race out of the apartment, get to a phone, call the police. _The police aren't going to arrest someone they can't see_. Simon turned Jace’s words in his head idly as he looked around.

He ran to his room, but it was untouched.

What kind of robbers didn't take a wallet with them, or the TV, the DVD player, or the expensive laptops?

 _They weren’t robbers,_ a voice in the back of his head hissed, almost angrily. _Not your kind of thieves. He’s found your mother._

Jocelyn's room, at least, seemed untouched—her handmade flowered quilt was folded carefully on the duvet. Simon's own face smiled back at him from the top of the bedside table, five years old, gap-toothed smile framed. A sob rose in Simon's chest. _Mom_ , he cried inside, _what happened to you?_

A noise sounded through the apartment, raising the short hairs along the nape of his neck. Like something being knocked over—a heavy object striking the floor with a dull thud. The thud was followed by a dragging, slithering, _familiar_ noise—and it was coming toward the bedroom. Stomach contracting in terror, Simon scrambled to his feet and turned around slowly.

For a moment he thought the doorway was empty, and he felt a wave of relief—and confusion. Then he looked down.

It was crouched against the floor, a long, scaled creature with a cluster of flat black eyes set dead center in the front of its domed skull. Something like a cross between an alligator and a centipede, it had a thick, flat snout and a barbed tail that whipped menacingly from side to side. Multiple legs bunched underneath it as it readied itself to spring.

He screamed as he took a step back, but his knees had been turned to jelly. He fell, hitting his back just as the creature lounged, and he rolled to the side. It missed him by inches, sliding along the floor. He heard the creature growl.

He scrambled to a crouch and lunged, doing a roll and then jumping to his feet before making a run for it. He was surprised he even made it.

But he didn’t.

The… the thing was too fast for him—it made it to the hallway before he did, hanging over his head like a giant _spider_. For a moment his mind flashed to Jaida Jones, a classmate, who had a bad case of arachnephobia and even a small spider made her have a heart attack. _This is the day I develop the fear of spiders,_ he thought stupidly.

Its jaws opened slowly, showing a row of fanged teeth spilling greenish drool. A long black tongue flickered out between its jaws as it gurgled and hissed. To his horror Simon realized that the noises it was making were words.

" _Boy,_ " it hissed. " _Flesh. Blood. To eat, oh, to eat._ "

It began to slither slowly down the wall. The thing was on its feet now, crawling toward him. _This is it,_ Simon thought. _This is the day I die. And I don’t even know what happened to my mom._

The creature was coming towards him, and he closed his eyes just as it reared up—

He screamed again when he felt _something_ collide against him, but it wasn’t… the thing.

It was Jace.

Simon, without meaning to, clutched against him desperately, but Jace left him and jumped back, towards the creature, but it ignored him and went straight for Simon.

Whatever Simon had grabbed off of Jace, it was moving. And it was annoying. The thing reared up again, and Simon couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t feel anything, and the thing was still _hissing._ “ _Valentine will never know,_ ” it said. “ _He said nothing about a boy. Valentine will not be angry. Oh, to eat—to drink from the veins…”_

Whatever Jace was trying to achieve, he was failing. But Simon had one last form of defense.

As the thing lunged for him, he jammed the— _item_ down its throat, but he went too far. He felt the burning on the skin of his arm, but more terrifyingly, a prick on his throat. _That was the worst._ He was going to die, he was sure of it.

_I’m still going to die._

He pulled back and struggled to breath, just as he watched as the thing twitched and spasm and scream, and Jace was there, calmly stabbing it by the throat, and Simon turned. He retched, and gagged, but nothing was coming out. His arm was still burning.

And then Jace was there, and Simon said something about his mom, and the police, but Jace was calm and efficient and was telling him not to panic. Simon almost wanted to laugh.

Jace reached to the back of his neck, and Simon felt _something_ —and then nothing.

**..--..**

He wasn’t sure how Clary and Charlie bought his bullshit of a story as he drove them home. They probably heard ‘emergency’ and ‘Simon’s mom’ and panicked just as badly as Simon did after the phone call.

Which begs the question of, _What happened?_

He was driving as quickly as city speed limits and traffic would allow him, but this time he was cursing the fact that he lived on the other side of town from Simon. He was worried—the things he’d found out last night, this _Valentine_ business—

He hadn’t told his dad yet, refusing until absolutely necessary—his dad was a Letter. He could hold this information over his head to fish for more.

_But Jocelyn’s life._

He ignored that voice and concentrated on driving.

*.*


	4. Chapter 4

He didn’t know how to take the scene he arrived to. Simon was on the ground, _seizing,_ and Jace was kneeling over him, looking lost. He had—a _stele_ , his mind told him—in his but he looked hesitant to use it. Dean jumped out of his car, running towards them.

“ _Draw,”_ he growled to Jace, who looked up at him in surprise and incredulity. “ _Trust me,_ Shadowhunter, he’s my friend. _Draw a healing rune._ ”

Jace nodded and got to work. Dean took the back of Simon’s head but—he pulled away, and it came away red. There were some substance that—

“Demon poison?” he asked, his jaw working. He took his kerchief and wiped off the blood until he found where Simon was still bleeding.

“Ravener,” Jace said quietly, and when Dean looked, he saw that he was drawing _iratzes_ over what looked like burns on Simon’s arm. “It must have been waiting for him inside.”

Dean glanced up to the window. All the lights were still on. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Jace muttered, “but the neighbor—Dorothea, the Seeress—said something about his mom moving stuff. For vacation. And I heard Simon screaming.”

“Shit, this is bad,” Dean muttered.

“What are you?” Jace asked, moving from Simon’s arm to his neck. “Why are there so many mundanes who can see us? You, Simon. _Madame Dorothea_.”

Dean swallowed. “I’m just me,” he said softly.

He could feel Jace’s gaze on him, but he ignores it in favor of wiping blood and demon ichor off of Simon, as best as he could.

“I need to get him to the institute,” Jace said. “The demon poison will have to be washed out of his system.”

Dean wanted to growl. To say, _no, you can’t_ , but if he brought Simon to the clinic, he would have to investigate just why there was a demon—a _Ravener_ —in Simon’s house waiting for him. He’d have to investigate what happened, and he’ll have to present everything from last night to today. He wasn’t ready for that. Even he knew nothing substantial yet. He nodded. “As long as I come, too.”

“You’re a _mundane_ ,” Jace said through gritted teeth.

Dean looked up at him, a challenge. “I have a car. Simon is my friend. And if it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be asking yourself why your runes worked for him. _I am not letting Simon go alone_ , you hear me?”

“Damn it— _fine_!” he said, shoving his stele into one of the cuffs around his wrist and sitting up. He slid an arm under Simon’s shoulder and another under his knees. “Lead the way, _mundane_.”

Dean ignored the drive to tell him that he wasn’t just a mundane. He was a Letter. A Hunter. _That’s how I know about the Toque Pactum_ , he wanted to say, but he kept it to himself once more. He has never told anyone outside of the people who knew the moment he—or they—were born. Besides, Simon had been poisoned by a demon. Now wasn’t the time.

He opened the door and Jace set Simon down gently—surprising Dean once more. He was surprised at the gentleness he’d physically handled Simon in the alley, too, surprised he could pull that off with the harassment he’d received from whats-his-name.

 _Alec_.

“Where’s Alec?” he asked absently as he turned the engine on. “I would’ve expected him to continue harassing me after getting me to the alley.”

“He did his job,” Jace said tightly, and when Dean glanced at him, he was looking out the window. “Turn here.”

Dean did. The ride was silent, broken by Jace giving Dean directions to the Institute, and Simon’s broken gasps and groans. Dean was trying to drive as gently as he could, but he couldn’t help that most of the pavement was old and cracked. Besides, this car’s suspenders weren’t new. He wouldn’t be able to afford it.

“Dean,” Jace said, and he thought for a moment he missed a turn, but when Jace didn’t say anything else, he just asked, “what?”

“I’m sorry,” the Shadowhunter said, shocking Dean. “What we did at the alley was out of line. We had orders. We should have handled them better.”

Dean was quiet for a moment. Finally, “yeah,” he said. _I feel you_ , he didn’t. _I get orders I carry out, too. And sometimes I do it worse than you did_.

Dean didn’t need Jace to tell them they’ve reached the institute—he knew they did by the look of the building they were approaching. Jace had to go out to open the gates for the car and to close it after, but Dean didn’t need his help when he ran up the stairs to the door.

It opened for him.

Jace frowned at him, carrying Simon, but Dean shrugged—he didn’t know, either. He followed behind Jace as he led them up another flight of stairs to an elevator. Alec and Isabelle were waiting for them at the landing, looking anxious—then relieved—except Isabelle looked scandalized quickly when she registered the presence of Dean and Simon.

“ _What happened_?” she shrieked, as she led them down a hallway to where Dean thought the infirmary was located. _Not the question I was expecting,_ Dean thought.

“Simon ran home,” Jace answered. “A Ravener was waiting for him there. He killed it with his bare hands, can you believe that?” There was a sense of awe and amazement in his voice and Dean wanted to say, _hell yeah, that’s my best friend right there!_ but he stayed quiet. He stayed at the sidelines, eyes trained on Simon as Jace set him down on one of the beds. “We’ll need to get him out of his clothes,” Jace said again.

Dean sighed. “I have extra clothes in my car,” he said, finally grabbing everyone’s attention. There was silence. “Someone take those clothes off of him. I’m going to go get the bag.”

“I’ll come with you,” Isabelle said quickly, and Dean smiled tiredly at her. Now he was feeling the fact that he hadn’t slept for almost thirty six hours. “Sorry about last night,” she said quietly as they went back to the hallway. The elevator car was still on their floor. They got on. “We just weren’t expecting mundanes to catch us doing… you know.”

Dean tried to grin, but the unimpressed look on her face told him he failed. “That’s alright,” he said. “I don’t think Simon was expecting to see that, either.”

“What about you?” she asked.

Dean looked at her.

“Were you expecting to see that?”

He looked away and kept quiet as they got off the elevator again, walking together down the stairs and out of the church. Dean saw now that it was a church—there were pews all around, and at the other end of the door was an altar. “What church was this?” he asked.

She glanced at him, surprised he was talking. “One of the first built by the Whites when they set foot in this country. They called it _The Church of Saint Thomas_. The Clave took it over after it was abandoned and established the Institute.”

Dean nodded. He opened the trunk of the car, handing Isabelle the bag of extra clothes he always had with him on hand in case he had to go out of town for a Hunt. “There’s only one set in there,” he said. “You’d have to lend him some when he wakes up.”

Isabelle nodded. “Alec would lend him some.” She led them back upstairs, and it was only then that Dean registered she wasn’t wearing the leather outfit from last night. The first person she saw today that wasn’t, actually. She was wearing a flattering pair of jeans and a tank top that hugged her body. If they had met under different circumstances he would have flirted with her, maybe asked her out. After last night… he didn’t think he could do it.

“Isabelle,” he said, taking out a piece of receipt he’d written his number on. He handed it to her when she looked back. “Just in case—just in case you need me.”

Isabelle looked at him, but Dean didn’t meet her eyes. He went straight for the elevator.

An old man was bent over Simon when they got back to the infirmary. He was thin, with grey-streaked hear and a beaky nose. A raven was perched over the footboard of Simon’s bed.

“Hodge!” Isabelle greeted, running towards the man. _At least that answered that question_ , he thought, watching as she chucked the bag to the bed beside Simon’s. Alec and Jace stood sentinel over Hodge’s shoulders, handing him bottles and packs of leaves and bowls. It was an interesting sight.

The Network usually let blood when the poisoning was fresh—such as in Simon’s case. But if it had been over five hours, they gave an infusion of holy water and salt. It was usually effective.

The Letters had a different approach. They didn’t cleanse the body—the go for the soul. Once that has been cleaned, the body followed—it was great, but really, _really_ painful.

Dean himself has never experienced getting demon poisoning before, because _thank god for small mercies_ , but that didn’t mean he hasn’t heard of anyone he knew getting struck or dying from it.

He was snapped out of his thoughts from everyone giving what seemed to be a simultaneous sigh of relief. When he looked, Simon didn’t seem to be… dying anymore. Hodge was smiling at him when he met his eyes. “Your friend is stable now,” he said. “We just have to wait.”

Dean nodded wordlessly.

“Oh! Hodge, this is Dean,” Isabelle said, gesturing to Dean. Hodge walked over to him, the bird flapping to land on his shoulder, hand extended.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean…” he said, voice trailing off and question in his eyes.

“Hello, Hodge,” Dean said, not going for the bait. He wasn’t risking it. He took Hodge’s hand, ignoring the look of surprise in his eyes, before dropping his hand quickly. “How long are you willing to let him stay here?” he asked, eyes flicking to Simon.

“For as long as he needs to heal,” Hodge answered readily. But there was a glint of suspicion in his eyes. “But, for the sake of everyone’s safety, Dean, I must know…”

Dean breathed out and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Winchester,” he finally said, hand dropping and shoulders drooping. “It’s Dean Winchester.”

Hodge’s tensed shoulders at his admission told him everything he needed to know. “Will Simon be okay, Hodge?” he asked.

Hodge nodded stiffly. “I must prepare something else.” He walked out, leaving the four teenagers alone in the infirmary. Dean allowed his exhaustion to get to him and went to sit down on the bed beside Simon’s, ignoring the looks he was getting.

“What’s a Winchester?” Isabelle finally asked, wording he question neither of the two boys were willing to.

Dean sighed. “ _Who_ ,” he corrected. “It’s a family. Mine. We are Legacies of an organization called the Men of Letters—they collect knowledge, learn them, and apply them to help rid this world of evil.” Even to himself he sounded like he was reciting from a book—he didn’t feel like himself at all. He has _never_ said these words to anyone before. “We also collect artifacts, weapons, ingredients—everything we could put our hands on for spells of different uses. But our biggest assets are our favors. We gain them, and generations down the line, when we need it, we collect. I’m being trained—there are certain… levels of knowledge and application you can get to as an initiate.

“But I’m also a Hunter.” He smiled wryly. “You could say we’re like Shadowhunters. We kill demons, and dimensionals.” He looked up at the Shadowhunters. “And errant Downworlders who go against the Accords.”

“Demons?” Isabelle repeated, taking a seat beside Dean. “Dimensionals?” She looked at the two other Shadowhunters. “How come we’ve never heard of these?”

“The _Toque Pactum_ ,” Jace said, looking at Dean. “I’ve read about it in the Codex. It doesn’t say what it is.”

“There are only three copies,” Dean said. “One is with your Enclave—Clave—the other is in the Hunter Main Camp, and the third is in the Men of Letters Archives. I know because they were mentioned in a file only Legacies, Initiates and Letters can get to at the library.”

“The Central Library?” Alec asked, talking for the first time. He sounded shocked.

Dean nodded. “It’s owned by the Men of Letters. The librarian is a Legacy, but her dad won’t let her be initiated. And her mother is a civilian. She doesn’t want her daughter getting into the Hunting business.”

“But what’s the _Toque Pactum_?” Isabelle asked. “The… _Triumvirate Pact?_ ”

Dean nodded. “It’s a pact—obviously—between you, us, and… well, the other side of ‘us’. Meaning me. I’m the first Legacy who’s also a Hunter.”

“…why?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll try to get my dad to talk about it.”

Jace and Alec exchanged glances. “We’ll try on this side, too,” Alec said.

Dean nodded. He still wasn’t sure if he liked these people or not, but they seemed trustworthy. He looked down at Simon and gulped. “If I promise to smuggled books from the library, could you promise to keep Simon safe?”

“He’s safe here,” Isabelle said softly, putting a hand on his arm. “This is hallowed ground. No—hell spawn or demon could get in here.”

Dean nodded jerkily and stood. “If that’s the case…”

“What are you going to do about him, missing?” Jace asked suddenly.

Dean sent him a look. “You were more than willing to kidnap us earlier,” he said.

“That was without the threat of having to keep you here for _a long period of time_ ,” Jace shot back, but he wasn’t angry. Actually, neither was Dean.

Dean looked at Simon. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll come by when I can.”

He saw the three Shadowhunters nod, and, reassured, he left. There was one person he couldn’t trust, though, and it was Hodge. He was getting the weirdest vibes from the man, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

 

*.*

Hodge Starkweather ground the leaves under his pestle, keeping a careful eye on the pot of boiling soup on the stove.

 _A Winchester_ , he thought. He hasn’t seen one in two generations. The last time—

Memories flared at the back of his eyes, even when he tried to stop them from coming. Nothing could, though, and he would give _anything_ to forget. There was no forgetting the blood continuously flowing. The sounds of killing. The smell of death and doom.

He has tried, but it wouldn’t work.

He added the crushed leaves to the soup, the smell of mint and nuts wafting around him.

Hugo cawed, and Hodge looked at him blankly. He shook his head.

 

He went straight for his room the moment he got home. He ignored Sam and Adam’s questions, asking him if he had fun—he hadn’t gone home since he left that evening, but he had texted his mom that he was crashing at Simon’s. He felt guilty for lying to his mom, but he couldn’t think of that at the moment. He waved off Sam’s pesky questioning, fell into bed, and promptly fell to sleep. He just barely managed to get his phone out of his pocket.

It was dark when he woke up again. When he checked his phone—cringing at the stabbing glow of the screen—he saw that it was nine pm. Just barely six hours of sleep. But he missed a call—he must have been conked out quite deeply to sleep through his phone’s vibrations. It was Luke.

It must have been about Simon and his mom. He was about to call him, but something made him pause. _There was a Ravener waiting for Simon when he got home. Someone’s found Simon’s mom_ —it couldn’t have been just a human, _especially_ not because Shadowhunter marks worked on Simon. What if Luke—

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door. “Come in,” he called, locking his phone and dropping it on his mattress before laying on his back, stretching. His back felt _awful_.

It was his mom.

“Hey, baby,” she greeted softly, “I’d hoped you were awake. I need your help on a Hunt. Tonight.”

Dean frowned. “Couldn’t anybody else go with you?” he asked as he got up, shoving his feet into his Hunting boots and exchanging his jacket for a padded one. “Not that I don’t want to, because Hunting with you is great.”

Mary Winchester smiled at him. “Serious demonic activity’s been going on lately,” she answered, still in that soft voice of hers. “Bobby and the others are keeping an eye on them, try to see if they’re worth the trouble. This one is.”

Dean frowned and nodded, going for the chest behind his door where he kept his weapons. He took a gun, a vial of salt, and a bottle of holy water, before sheathing his angel blade. He looked at his mom, who was staring at the sleeve where his vambrace was hidden, hiding the sword’s thin sheath. “I wish they’d let you have an angel blade,” he said, frowning.

She smiled. “I can take care of myself. You’re my angel, remember?”

Dean blushed. He’d never forget. “Of course.”

“Dean?” she called. He didn’t look up, but he hummed. “There was demonic activity near Simon’s today. It stopped abruptly, after a certain flair. You said you crashed there. Was that you? What did you do?”

He bit his lip, knowing in his gut this would come up sometime. He thought of lying to his mom again, and guilt made him feel green. It was making him feel worse. But he had to keep this to himself, at least until he knew more. She smiled at him. “Yeah, mom. A Ravener. I don’t know what flair you’re talking about.”

“Simon? Luke called. He wasn’t answering his phone, and—”

“His mom is missing,” Dean said lowly, “but Simon’s okay. Trust me, mom, please?”

When he looked, there was a fierce expression on Mary’s face. He stood up and was immediately pulled into a hug. “I trust you,” she said, “with my life. But I just hope you know what you’re getting into. You are a wonderfully responsible young man, you have proven that by taking care of yourself _and_ your brothers, but _please_ , put yourself ahead this time.”

Dean wrapped his arms around his mother, pressing a kiss that was an apology and a confession against her neck. He had grown two inches over her this year. “Okay, mom.”

She sighed, as if she knew what he was promising with his words. But she still squeezed him and let him go, jerking her head to the door. “Let’s go, baby.”

Dean grinned. “I wish you’d stop calling me baby, though.”

Mary rolled her eyes, chucking to him a set of keys. “I’m _letting_ you drive Baby tonight,” she said, tone light, as if their conversation had not just happened. “I think I’m entitled, _baby_.”

Dean snorted.

Sam and Adam were asleep on the living room floor, blankets already over them. “Your dad’s coming home later to bring them to their rooms. We’ll eat dinner after the hunt. Come on.”

Dean nodded in agreement, following his mom down the three steps to the foyer and out the door. She locked it behind them while Dean ran his hands through the doorjamb. The sigils were still clearly there. It made him feel safer for his little brothers, at least. He also knew that the linings of the walls had sigils painted into them.

 _A Hunter and a Letter get married_ …

He opened Baby’s door—welcoming the smell of leather and comfort and _Baby_ as he sat on the driver’s seat as his mom checked the trunk for her own set of weapons. Under some tacit agreement, John had allowed Mary to use the Impala as her Hunting vehicle, installing the false bottom of the trunk himself when she asked. He used an old truck to drive from the garage he co-owned to home.

Mary sat down beside him ten minutes later, eyes flicking up to him. There was a nervous excitement in the air between them, and they grinned at each other. Hunts have always been exciting for Dean, but they were more so when he had them with his mom.

“So, where do we do this?” he asked her, grinning.

She was hesitant, but she plowed on a few moments later. “ _Palm Spring street,_ ” she said, and all amusement and excitement drained from Dean’s body. Instead, he concentrated on the road as he turned Baby’s engine on. Not even the comforting purr under his legs was enough to distract him from one thought.

_Simon’s street._

*.*

He wasn’t proud to say he broke all speed limits to get there in five minutes. He parked three blocks away from Simon’s house, but even from there his EMF reader was going nuts. When he stepped out into the summer night, the faint scent of sulfur was present. Faint, but there.

It was near.

“What is it?” he asked his mom, who was gearing up by the trunk. “You at least know, right?”

“A _cambion_ ,” Mary answered him as she shut the trunk and began checking her guns over. “The offspring of an incubus and a human. They’re beautiful children, normal, except they’re not… _alive_. And they’re evil.”

“Mom,” Dean said flatly, and Mary chuckled.

“And they could control humans, too,” she said. She walked to him and tapped him on the chest. Good thing you got this, eh?” Dean frowned, and then realized she must be referring to the pendant Sam had given him when he was twelve. It had kept him from being mind controlled by another demon years back; it was sure to be in effect again now.

“I don’t even know what it is,” he said.

“Neither does your uncle Bobby, and he was the one to give it to Sam. Shall we?”

Dean nodded. They simply followed the trail of sulfur, until they found her—standing in the middle of the road, Mary was right. She must be around nine, or ten, blonde hair braided into two lengths that ran down to the back of her knees. She was beautiful, and she was staring at Dean and Mary and back again. Her eyes were red.

And then she grinned, a beatific grin that wasn’t affected in any way by the needlepoint teeth she was sporting. Her skin was pale, far too pale to be on a live person. A beautiful corpse, Dean thought, as he and Mary stopped a few yards from the child.

She giggled. “I know _you_ ,” she told Dean, pointing at him with wide eyes. She leant forward, still grinning. “I’ve seen you!”

Dean clenched his jaw, and forced himself to smile. “Well, princess,” he said, “I am flattered. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here then?”

She pouted. “He never said anything about a Hunter,” she said, pointing at Mary. “What are you doing here?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

“I’m here to take care of you, darling,” Mary purred, cocking her gun. Had Dean not seen her do that so many times before, he might have been intimidated.

“Scary,” the girl murmured, and Dean agreed. _That’s my mom, scary as fuck_. She looked at Dean, and there was a glint in her eyes that made Dean want to squirm. “Can you put the scary toy down, please?” she said.

It didn’t work. “No, sweetheart, sorry. Why don’t you tell us who _he_ is?”

The girl squinted at her, and then started giggling. “Oh, Lucifer will love this world,” she said suddenly, eyes wide and innocent. “He will love the life, oh, _Father_ , I cannot wait to see you rise. And an angel offspring will help,” she added, looking at Dean, “he will help. Oh, the _life_!”

She continued giggling, and either she was too distracted, or too young to understand, but she never noticed Dean coming closer, unsheathing his angel blade, and plunging it between her ribs.

But Dean underestimated her. She had all five fingernails— _claws­_ —digging into his arms before he could twist his blade, and Dean felt dizzy. “Oh,” she gasped, “oh, you have been with them,” she whispered. “With the prince and— _oh_ —”

She gurgled, and died.

Dean had managed to twist the blade. He managed to wrench his arm from her grasp, his dizziness and nausea worsening, and he thought, _shouldn’t have jinxed it by thinking I’ve never been poisoned before_. For some reason it was funny, and he started laughing. Everything was funny. The dark sky. The dead body by his head.

His wounds.

His mother was cradling his head, and he was still giggling.

“You got demon blood into your bloodstream, baby,” she murmured, “and I heard it works like a drug while it poisons you.”

“Poison,” he repeated, and then fell into more peals of laughter.

Mary sighed. “Let’s get you to a clinic, okay?” She dragged him to a standing position, and he managed to walk to the car with her, but when he saw her extending the angel blade to him, he started laughing again. “Might not be a good idea,” she murmured, and then the door was closing and they were off.

Mary left him in a room on his own to look for a nurse for help. He was exhausted now, the drug of demon blood losing its effect and the spasms were starting. This was what Simon must have felt, earlier. It was excruciating, it was _fire – fire – fire_ running up and down his arm, to his spine, to his head, making him dizzy. Everything looked like there were bubbles, disproportioned and ugly. He was lying on his side, injured arm cradled protectively against his chest. _Fire – help – hot – pain._ He was facing the door, so he was surprised when he found no one else but Castiel Novak enter his room.

“Cas,” he muttered, as Castiel drew nearer and raised a hand towards him. “I can call you Cas, right?” _The fire, Cas. Stop the fire._

“Yes, Dean,” Cas answered in that low, gravelly tone of his. “You may. Now quiet. I’ll stop the fire.”

“You’re not here to kill me, are ya?” Dean slurred. “Coz if you were…” _Firefirefire._

“I’m not here to end you life, Dean. I said, _quiet_.”

Dean snorted. Cas touched his arm, and then the pain was gone. It didn’t feel like the pain receded, it was like the pain—no, it was _exactly_ the pain suddenly just disappearing—just like that. He looked up to Cas in surprise, but the man was already turning to leave. Exhaustion was catching up to Dean.

“What are you, Cas?” he asked, not sure if it came out right, but Cas paused. Whether he answered or not, Dean will never know. At that moment, he succumbed to darkness.

**..--..**

 

Humans were amazing creatures, he thought idly, standing outside of the building. He watched as people came in and went out, weeping in grief or joy—for the coming of life, for the ending. They were exquisite creatures, creations.

His musings were interrupted by the arrival of someone else, someone he hadn’t been expecting to see in a while.

“Cerviel,” he greeted, nodding to the newcomer. They both had dark hair, but where one was light and wiry, the other was dark and tall. He seemed to be brooding.

“Brother,” the one called Cerviel greeted. “I had been sent by Balthazar to you.”

The first one frowned at this. “I was not expecting company for a little longer.”

“Things are moving faster than they were intended. Your ward has been informed by a demon of the rise of Lucifer.”

The look on Cerviel’s brother’s face was dark. “I am informed. What of the girl?”

“Her fate is sealed,” Cerviel said slowly, “but we can prevent it. We can save her.”

The brother hesitated, but the thought of the girl’s fate—death and losing everything she has ever loved, and leaving the lives of everyone who loved her—he decided. He nodded his head. “We will.”

Both of them watched the buzz of the hospital for a few more moments, before light, ethereal and graceful, began manifesting on their backs. They both spread their wings, Cerviel’s pure white and his brother’s black, dark as night, great big appendages that spread thrice their heights over their heads, twice their widths behind them. With two loud flaps, they were off.

 

_“Ariel!”_

The gleam of crystal and the song of blades meeting, again and again and again is a comfort to the tide of confusion and frustration and irritation inside of him. Their blades, as if voices in a choir, raise themselves and their song as they meet, _parry, hook_ — _there!_

“ _Barakiel!_ ”

Jace smirked as his _parabatai_ successfully parried his strike, one that would have sliced his heart had he not. And then Alec was there, moving forward, on the offensive, but Jace was ready for this, ready for each of his moves; anticipating it as he felt it in their _parabatai_ bond just as Alec anticipated each of his moves. _One foot to the left, feint right and—_

He spun, like a tornado on his toes, hilt of his blades drawn close to his body, the sharp ends of the blade pointed towards Alec as he spun, _around and around and around, closer, closer,_ but Alec knew what he was doing and _ducked, both blades pointed to Jace’s body_ —

Jace fell back, rolled, landed on his feet. The thrill of the spar was making him almost breathless, eyes wide and wild and bright like they were on a lion’s during and after a hunt, like they were whenever Jace was on his own hunt. Alec was staring at him, and then he was moving, jumping and spinning in the air and Jace was there to meet him before he landed, calling “ _Iaoel_ ” and holding both his blades like a cross, like a protective seal, and he felt it, felt it before it landed and he moved to the right, avoiding Alec’s foot, and it was gone before he could grab for it, Alec landing on a roll and springing to him _again and again and again_ —

Their concentration was broken by the door to the training room opening, Izzy peeking in. Her nose was scrunched in disgust. “You two stink,” she announced, looking nonplussed at Jace and her brother. “Go shower. Dinner’s ready.”

Alec and Jace exchanged glances, nervously. Izzy must have picked up on it, because she rolled her eyes.

“It’s pizza,” she said, shaking her head before turning around, her long hair fanning around her like a dark veil after a bride, on a windy wedding day. “Shower before coming down.”

Jace rolled his eyes at Izzy’s comment, but after sniffing himself— _sweat – ozone – yuck_ —he agreed. He patted Alec on the shoulder, picking up the blades he dropped and letting their sharp points retract before putting them back into his belt. “Come on,” he said, his tone amused. “We don’t want Izzy coming back up a second time.”

Alec nodded in response, but otherwise stayed quiet. Jace felt nothing on his side of the _parabatai_ bond, which was not unusual, and not something he usually worried for or about. He led the way outside, and all the way to the residential wing, the winding corridors familiar to him he could now walk from one part of the Institute to another with his eyes covered.

They got to his room first, and he nodded once more to Alec before going in. It was high time for a bath.

 

*.*

 

“He killed it with his _bare hands_ , Alec,” Jace said, his voice conveying just how much he felt about it still—amazed, awed, but also a little confused and more confounded than he was earlier, back when the mundane could only _see_ them, “have you ever seen a mundie do that? I couldn’t get there until later, that _mundane held me,_ but when I got there—”

“ _Jace_ ,” Alec said, rubbing his temples with his fingers. He sounded tired, but Jace couldn’t tell if it was because of the spar or because of the topic. _Probably the latter,_ and Jace suppressed a grin. “That is the millionth time you’ve told us the story. Can we talk about something else, next?” _I was right,_ he thought smugly, smirking at Alec, even at the confused look his _parabatai_ sent him. _I was right_.

“What about Dean?” Izzy piped up from where she was perched, interrupting Jace’s inner monologue. He has been having more and more of those lately, he felt like a character in a novel. They were eating dinner, rather, almost done care of Hodge (who called the pizza company), and were simply waiting for an update on the mundie’s status. He seemed stable enough this afternoon, but he had began gasping again a few hours ago. Jace looked at her, studying her, and smirked.

“You have a crush on him, don’t you?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. It wasn’t anything new, she was a girl after all. And he’s gotta admit that Dean was easy on the eyes as well, never mind that he could hold himself in a fight. He could probably test the theory out, when they have time.

Izzy rolled her eyes at him, chucking a piece of bread his way. “I _don’t_ ,” she said, her tone laced with steel and finality, “it’s just… doesn’t it seem weird? That there’s the _Pactum_ and we’ve never heard of each other before?”

Alec frowned, already finished with his dinner, arms crossed over his chest. _Confusion – what – why_ lanced through Jace through the _parabatai_ bond, and the wave of emotion was so sudden that he felt—and suppressed—the urge to rub at where the bond was drawn on his chest. “Well… they _must_ have a reason, right? I mean the Clave wouldn’t have done that just because.”

 _But you’re still unsure,_ Jace wanted to point out, but by the look on Izzy’s face, she had picked up on it as well, even just from his words. The silence that followed his statement was heavy. 

“Should we ask Hodge?” Alec finally settled on, minutes, hours, days later. Isabelle looked just as unsure as he.

Jace nodded. “Yeah, maybe, when the mundie’s awake. I’m sure they’ll be _happy_ to know what Hodge thinks.”

Alec was frowning at him. “You were being sarcastic,” he said finally, as if it were a revelation. And then he shook his head. “But I agree. It seems the mundanes are reluctant to trust us.”

Izzy rolled her eyes—the _duh, idiots_ was obvious in the way she did the gesture, as if it was idiotic of them to have missed it as fact—“The first thing they’ve ever seen us do is kill a demon,” she said flatly, meeting Jace’s, and then Alec’s, eyes. “That’s when they didn’t understand what was happening. And then we go and insult them, and be _rude_ —” she sent Jace a meaningful look, to which Jace gave an indignant “Hey!” in response “—and we harass and… and threaten to kidnap them. If I were a mundane I’d feel the same!”

Jace smirked at her glowering, though in retrospect, he agreed. “It’s a surprise,” he drawled lazily, “how much self-preservation mundanes have, in reality. They do such stupid things sometimes I am shocked they still exist.”

 _If I were a mundane_. It was a strange sentiment, coming from a Shadowhunter, especially one as Izzy. _If I were a mundane._

“It’s part of our duty,” Alec muttered from beside him, and Jace looked at him in surprise. “To make sure that they keep existing, that is. Our Oaths.” He glanced at Jace, before looking down at the table again, furrowing his brows.

Jace merely frowned in response, thinking his words over—it was, indeed, their duty to lay their lives down for the continuance of the human race. But they were not alone in this fight—they probably never were, they just never knew about the existence of… of what had Dean called them? _Hunters_ and _Letters_.

Hodge came into the kitchen at that precise moment, his suit rumpled and hair in disarray. He was holding a bowl in one hand and a bottle of clear liquid in another, and his eyes looked tired. There were dark bags under his spectacles, and those were the moments Jace saw the age in his tutor—his true age. His hands were shaking slightly.

“How’s the mundane?” Jace asked when Hodge finally placed the items in his hands down onto the counter.

“He could be better,” Hodge answered, and his voice was scratchy. “I shall retire soon,” he continued, and he even _sounded_ tired—like an old instrument being forced to keep playing in a space too big for it to be heard. “You may see him now.”

Jace saw Izzy nod from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t dare give his own reaction. Hodge left soon after, leaving the three young Shadowhunters to their own devices. “Well,” she said, “I’m going to go check on our resident mundane.”

Alec sighed. “We’ll fix up here.”

With that, the three of them stood and went by their own business—Izzy leaving the kitchen, Alec and Jace beginning to pick up the dishes around them on the table. Jace was immediately tasked with doing to the dishes, and though he tried to protest, he couldn’t do anything but sigh in defeat and stand, dejected, before the sink.

He heard Alec laugh from behind him.

He was halfway through washing when Izzy called inside to say goodnight, and after, Jace stood there, unsure as to where he planned on going next. He eyed the door, thinking he should go see the mundane himself, seeing as he was the one who brought him here, and almost decided against it—except he was already walking, walking towards the infirmary, following a pull to the mundane—to _Simon_ —he couldn’t quite explain, a pull he had felt for the boy even when he first laid eyes on him that night at Pandemonium.

Simon lay unconscious but breathing and peaceful on the cot, and the billow of the sheets around his body made his skinny disposition even more prominent. But his face was relaxed, looking almost like a child’s, his nose scrunched just slightly—probably from the stench of the herbs Hodge had used on his wounds, a stench that even _Jace_ could smell. But he didn’t mind it, couldn’t bring himself to. Simon’s glasses lay on the bedside table where Izzy must have placed it, and Jace eyed the clothes on the other bed, still bloodstained and left for hours on the sheets. He sighed, gathering the sheet and the clothes into a ball, planning on going to the courtyard to burn it, but Simon stopped him with a murmur.

“What?” he asked quietly, stupidly, because Simon was unconscious, but _what if he could hear me?_ But Simon remained silent, though he had turned his face to where Jace was standing, and this time he didn’t look as peaceful. There was a line between his eyebrows, and the corners of his eyes were wet—as if tears were waiting to fall down to his cheeks. His breathing was deep and even, and Jace shook his head. He left the infirmary soon after, but not before giving in to the urge to smooth out the line on Simon’s forehead.

 

Church was waiting for him at the elevator doors when he came back up, his clothes smelling of smoke and burnt flesh and sulfur, the stench of demon blood. He felt and smelled disgusting, and he gave Church a quick pet before walking to his room, taking a second shower, and throwing on sleeping clothes. He fell to his bed, staring at the constellations of witchllight he and Alec and Izzy had put in his room. There were constellations in their rooms, too, but Jace hadn’t been to either for years. He wondered idly, in the space between waking and dreaming, if they were still there.

And into the arms of slumber he fell.

 

 

_Light. Grace. Souls. Heaven, was this heaven? It didn’t know. It could be, but it hasn’t seen heaven in years. Decades. Scores. Centuries. Forever. He misses it. It misses the Heavenly Host, and the voices of angels, and the singing of the souls for the Father. It misses the freedom in the air, the taste of life on its tongue, the tingle of grace through its body._

_Grace._

_Yes, grace—it—he—was an angel, he remembered. He lived in the upper echelon, watching, smiling, singing with his brothers and sisters, loving his Father and His world and His children and His creations, because it was commanded, and he never wanted for anything else but to love the Father, the only Father, worthy of his voice, his grace, his love, even though he wasn’t worthy of His._

_He hasn’t seen his home, oh his home, he wants his home—his sisters and brothers and the light and the life and the freedom. His home, from which he was taken, without his consent, without his knowledge, and he weeps, because he might never be able to go home again. He hears the other angels crying, weeping, singing agony in their voice and their grace that he still feels, their wings quivering in fear and hurt and other—other_ emotions _they have never known before, and there was the white-hot anger; the freezing cold sadness, the crippling loneliness. There was the stifling fear, there was the unimaginable hurt, the indescribable pain—excruciating, never ending,_ when will it end _? His voice doesn’t carry as far as he wants it to, his grace doesn’t help his brothers and sisters, captors in this eternal nightmare, and he doesn’t know when, but he knows that he can, he can end, just like his brother, whose scream tore a scream from his own throat, and soon they all were screaming in agony, and when his grace left, it took the grace from all of them; and when his vessel finally breathed its last breath, his wings were burned on the ground, on his body; the feathers a beautiful, painful reminder of all things he will lose; the pain of being burnt nothing to the pain of losing a brother._

_One by one they will fall, one by one, and he knows that it is against Father’s will, to promise revenge and to feel anger and resentment, but he swears an oath to himself and to his brother, he will avenge them. He will rise, and he will be powerful, and those who did this will pay._

_They will burn, burn to the ground, burn even when they’re buried under the ground, and their souls will keep burning even in the deepest pits of hell. He will use the last of his grace, his light, his flame, to make it happen, and he will be looked down upon, a vengeful angel, a disgrace, but he has learned not to care, and he doesn’t anymore, the pain, the pain, the screaming in his head, the hurt and sadness and loneliness and fear has been too much, and he will have his revenge._

_‘_ You will burn _,’_ _he says, and in himself, in the fading life and light of his grace, he knows it to be true, knows that nothing will stop him from making it true, because it is destiny._ You will burn _._

You will burn, like the burning of the first falling star, the first fallen angel; your flame will not be beautiful, you will not be gazed upon and called _grace_ ; your soul will be turned from and sneered at as you scream for mercy in your agony, in the pain, in the heat of it all; you will be taken down, like a rock from the air in the world Father has created, because you were never meant to fly; you will burn, and everyone will turn from the sky for the first time since creation—the trees will bow to avoid gazing at your heat; the ground will be wet with the weeping of joy in your fall; the eyes that turn to the sky will turn to the seas and the ground instead, and it will be because gazing as you fall from the sky will be painful, like the wounds you have inflicted, like the scars that you have picked at.

And the world will rejoice once you are forever gone, and I will rejoice for you have burned. You will fall, and you will burn.

 _You will fall, and you will burn_.


	5. Chapter 5

He slowly came to with the irritating smell of borax and chlorine tickling— _stabbing_ —his olfactory sense, making his nose twitch, only stopping when his eyes flew open—to the sensation of _wrong._

This wasn’t his bed—it was too lumpy and too scratchy to be the memory foam he’d talked John into buying and the sheets that Mary had insisted he put on his bed—and his pillow was too high, it was making his shoulders tense. When he looked around, though, he blinked, relieved but a little confused—he was at the clinic.

He frowned. He wasn’t sure what he was doing here, but he looked around, anyway. His bed was in the middle of the small room. To his right, he could see the door to the outside hallway at the end of a small corridor, on one wall another door to what he assumed was the bathroom. There was a chair on the corner, and there were clothes folded neatly on top—he was assuming it was for him. There was also a built-in shelf on the same wall—it had a television, and several drawers, and a tray of food—his again, he was sure. Next to his bed there was a small, simple table with a lamp, where his phone was resting next to his wallet and the Impala’s keys. He frowned. He looked to his left and—

His mom was asleep on the small couch the clinic provided, her blonde hair fanning out around her shoulder like a golden mane. She looked tired, even resting, with fain circles under her eyes and worry lines on her forehead, around her mouth, between her eyebrows. She looked stressed, even asleep, on her back. The sunlight streaming from the window over her didn’t seem to be affecting her sleep in any way, and Dean smiled—albeit worriedly—because the only time his mom ever slept through sunlight was when she was _exhausted_.

She probably was, considering they were in a hospital—but Dean checked himself. He had no injuries, as far as he could tell, and there wasn’t even an IV connected to him. It almost seemed as if they just slept over at a hospital for the night.

He slowly got to his feet, which proved him right about one thing—he wasn’t injured. He shivered at the cold tile meeting his bare feet, but he walked to his mom and shook her awake. Her eyes flew open and Dean moved back, afraid she was going to tackle him, but she just sighed tiredly and sat up, rubbing her eyes.

“Hey, baby,” she said sleepily, smiling at him. Even her smile looked tired, and Dean suddenly felt guilty for waking her up.

“Sorry for waking you,” he said softly, “but why are we here? I’m fine now.”

Mary frowned at him, looking at him from head to toe with squinted eyes. “I just wanted to make sure you _really_ were okay,” she finally settled on, her eyes dropping to his arm, and then away. She moved, patting the spot where her feet were just a few seconds ago. “Sit down, Dean. What happened last night?” she asked, when Dean was seated beside her, their shoulders brushing.

Dean frowned he—

 _Cas_.

“I saw the _cambion_ break skin, baby,” she whispered, as her hand fell to his right hand—the arm the _cambion_ had grabbed onto last night, the arm—“I saw its blood seep into your wounds. And you acted blood drunk.”

_Cas coming into the clinic room, holding his hand out._

“When I checked in on you again, you were—you were fine!”

 _Cas touching him, and the fire suddenly disappearing_ —

Dean forced himself to laugh. “It was nothing, mom,” he said, trying to reassure her and failing. “I swear—it must have just been the demon’s blood on my arm,” he said, as certainly as he could when she was staring at him with her gold and green eyes. It was unnerving, never mind guilt inducing and gut wrenching, to be lying to his mom like this. “And I don’t know what happened, maybe _I_ thought I was on demon blood, too.”

When Dean met her eyes, she looked suspicious, eyes narrowed dangerously. She knew he wasn’t telling the truth, but the door opening to welcome a nurse saved him from answering. He avoided his mom’s gaze as the nurse began checking him over, asking him questions about he remembered from last night and how he was feeling this morning. He put off talking to his mom again until the nurse left, standing after him to the set of clothes on the plastic chair and going into the bathroom to change.

He couldn’t put it off forever, though, so, after donning his shirt—and staring at his arm, where he _knew_ that _cambion_ broke his skin, which was smooth and soft and not even tender—he took a deep breath and stepped outside. His mom was fixing the couch when he walked out, and, gulping nervously, said, “Mom—”

He stopped, when his mom straightened up and looked at him. The worry and concern he saw in her eyes made guilt swirl like a whirlpool in his gut, making him feel woozy and nauseous and _it’s your mom, Dean, why can’t you tell her what happened?_

“Dean?” Mary said uncertainly, and Dean almost opened his mouth to start talking, about the Shadowhunters, about the night at Pandemonium, about Jocelyn and Simon and _Cas_ , and he couldn’t understand why he. Just. Won’t. Do. It. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” she added, walking forward, and then Dean was being enveloped in her arms, and she was warm and soft and _mom_. And in her arms, he could feel and hear all the questions she was asking. _Are you hiding something from me? Are you safe? Will you ever tell me?_

“Yeah,” he breathed, and it was the answer to all her questions, _yes, I am, it’s something big. Yes, well no, I don’t know, but I’ll try my best. Yes, I will, one day, not now._ “Can we go home, though?” he said, pulling away, scrunching his nose in disgust. “I want to take a shower.”

The concerned look stayed on her face for a moment longer before she scowled and fanned on front of her nose. “I smell ya,” she said, and it broke the spell, and they were laughing again. Guilt still settled heavily in his gut, weighing down his smile and his head, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t glad Mary dropped it. “Come on, then. Let’s go home.”

 

*.*

 

He has never loved the blessing that was a long, warm shower until then.

Adam and Sam were still asleep when he and Mary got home, seeing that it was so early, but Dean was too keyed up with thoughts of _Cas – Valentine – Simon_ to be able to go back to sleep, and besides, he felt disgusting. After his shower—donning nothing but his towel wrapped around his waist—he stood, pensive, in front of the mirror, studying his reflection.

 _You’re a liar,_ he thought to himself.

His green eyes never wavered.

He brushed his teeth, so hard that he even felt the coppery tang of blood when he was spitting the foam out and washing it off with water, and he even _shaved_.

When there was nothing left to do in the comfort room, he left, changed into a new set of clothes, and woke his little brothers up. It was such a nice and beautiful day outside—the sky was clear, the sun was shining, and the temperature was rising. It was almost ten.

“I hate you,” Adam mumbled sleepily as Dean continued to shake him awake. “Go away, Dean. You’re not welcome here.”

Dean grinned. Their house was small but cozy, with four bedrooms and three bathrooms. When Dean was old enough, he had claimed one of the bedrooms—then a guest room—and moved out of this very room, the room he shared with Sammy before Adam started sleeping in it, too, when he got too old to sleep in a nursery.

But they were two boys growing like weeds, and he was sure neither of his parents are planning on having another child. _Though I’m sure dad would like a real daughter this time,_ he thought with a snigger. He couldn’t wait to help convert the old nursery into a bedroom—he could play with the colors, with the furniture.

 _Glitters_ , he thought wickedly, looking at Sam, who had belly flopped back against his comforter after Dean left him to bother Adam. “Come _on_ ,” he urged his brother, “it’s time to welcome the day!”

“It’s summer break!” Adam protested, but Dean knew he was waking up—his voice was clear, and he was rubbing sleep from his eyes. Dean grinned in triumph when Adam sat up, glaring daggers at him. He wanted to tell him he was just enjoying the pleasures of being a big brother before it was taken from him, but he didn’t want to make Adam think he was guilting him into _not_ agreeing into becoming a Hunter.

“We can tickle Sam until _he_ screams,” Dean said lowly, glancing at Sam conspiratorially. The moose was fast asleep, half of his face squashed against his pillow, his mouth hanging open. Dean could _see_ the spit falling from his open lips. “Or we can kick him to the floor. It’s up to you.”

The prospect of teaming up against Sam made Adam light up like a Christmas tree—or, appropriate for the season, the sun rising to its peak in the afternoon. He nodded to Dean, agreeing, saying, “I wanna kick him. He kicked _me_ last night.”

Dean chuckled.

Adam followed him, his bare feet pattering faintly against the wood of the floor, but his own footfalls were quiet. The way his body was instinctively applying everything he was learning even at home was beginning to scare him.

He placed Adam gently on Sam’s side, and he stood by his long legs, and began counting quietly, _one, two, “_ THREE!”

“THIS. IS. SPARTA!” Adam screamed as he kicked out viciously, and it made Dean burst out laughing he almost missed the cue. His foot connected though, and a moment later Sam was _screamin_ g and falling with a loud thud on the bed. Adam was on him—literally—a second after, vaulting with his nine-year-old legs off the mattress and onto Sam, who was yelling at random sounds at the both of them as if they were words.

Dean was bent over laughing, having fallen to the floor after Adam’s outburst, his forehead pushed against the side of Sam’s bed. He couldn’t stop laughing, not even when the door opened and he looked up to see his dad, scandalized and confused, calling them, hesitantly, for breakfast.

Only when he was calm enough to continue breathing did he straighten up, approaching his little brothers who were lying in a heap on the floor. They were both panting, letting out random bursts of giggles before resuming breathing again. Dean was grinning as he pushed his hand against Adam’s armpits, pulling him up and supporting him until he could stand on his feet, though still a little woozy.

He then offered a hand to Sam, mockingly calling him _“Princess_ ”, a nickname he had given his brother years before and never dropped. Sam was breathless as he took his hand and allowed him to help him stand, but then he yelled, “ _YOU’RE THE DISNEY PRINCESS_ ” right at his face and kicked him on the shin. He ran away laughing, leaving Adam to fall to his ass into feats of uncontrollable giggles while Dean bent over his leg to try to tend to the throbbing pain of being kicked by a moose.

Seriously, did the kid have hooves or something? He was barefoot and his freakin _bones_ hurt!

“SAMMY KICKED DEAN!” Adam was screaming as he ran from Dean so suddenly, from the hallway all the way down the stairs. “SAMMY KICKED DEAN, DADDY, IT WAS AWESOME. SAMMY KICKED DEAN! MOMMY, MOMMY, SAMMY KICKED DEAN!”

Dean snorted at the power of that kid’s lungs—even from the kitchen, which was on the other side of the house, _one floor away_ , he could hear Adam’s voice, loud and clear like a bell. Even as a baby Adam had been a screamer, screaming for attention whenever he felt like he was being neglected. Dean was more than relieved to catch his hours of sleep after the nightmare that was Adam’s toddlerhood, and—

Well, he _might_ be part of the reason his parents weren’t planning for more kids.

He followed his brothers’ path down to the kitchen, but this time he was neither screaming nor running for his life, not even doing both at once. He was the big brother, thank you very much, he was _very_ mature.

“I don’t even want to know,” Mary told him as a greeting, directing him to sit down as she put a pile of pancakes in front of him. “I can’t get these two to shut up!” She gestured at Sam and Adam, who were talking animatedly together and not at all paying attention to the people _not_ part of their conversation.

“Mom,” he said confidentially, “I don’t think Sammy is almost thirteen.” She nodded her head solemnly. “I think he’s secretly nine, he just switched with someone for a while.”

“I feel that way as well,” Mary answered, looking wistfully at her two younger sons. “They’re awfully close, aren’t they?”

Dean felt his heart clench at his mother’s words. _Of course they’re close_ , he wanted to tell her, _they’re my little brothers! We’re all close!_

But he remained quiet, simply nodding and digging into his breakfast. He had decided that today was going to be day he spent with his brothers, doing all sorts of crazy shit, but the thought that _no_ , they weren’t close as they used to be, as they _should_ have been, made Dean question his own choice of spending the day.

He could ask Clary and Charlie out, explain the situation to them. Or he could look for Cas—though he had no idea where to start looking—and ask him all the questions that have been plaguing him since waking up a few hours ago. He could also go to the Institute, check on Simon’s well-being, try to twiddle out more information from the Shadowhunters.

There were so many things he could do with today that didn’t include his little brothers but, as he looked up from his plate and saw Adam’s boyish grin, Sam’s small smile, it made him feel more determined than ever to rectify that. He didn’t know how he could bridge a distance that made no sense to him _how it happened_ , but there was no point in not trying at all.

At least, when worse comes to worse, he could tell himself he tried. “Hey, guys,” he called, finally getting the attention of his little brothers, who turned to him expectantly. He grinned at them. “What do you say we have a movie marathon for the rest of the day?”

He saw Mary shake her head from the corner of his eyes, and also John, who had entered the kitchen without him noticing, wrap his arms around her with a small smile on his face, but both of his brothers were nodding, faces alight with excitement and hope and energy.

“Let’s watch Marvel!” Sammy yelled, but Adam said, “AVATAR!” over him and well, his lungs made it work for him.

Dean laughed and shook his head. “Okay, here’s the deal. Why don’t I go first, and then Sammy, and then _you_ , Adam. Is that a deal?”

“DEAL!” both boys said at once, grinning at each other before grinning at Dean.

He laughed again, delighted, warmth blossoming in his gut. It was so gradual, so—so _wonderful_ that it was the first time he noticed he had been feeling nothing lately but large amounts of guilt and confusion and exhaustion. He managed to keep his smile on his face for his little brothers, who didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss, but when he looked, he knew he didn’t fool his parents.

But this was warmth, right here, right now, and he was going to make the best of it. He loved his parents, but right now he couldn’t deal with figuring out the _whats_ and _whys_ and _hows_ and _whens_ to be able to open up and explain to them everything.

“Finish your food,” he ordered instead, “and then we are going on a binge.”

 

*.*

 

Spending the day with his brothers turned out to be blast, especially when all three of them combined the forces of their puppy eyes and got their mom to agree to having pizza delivered for lunch.

Adam fell asleep halfway through Sam’s choice of Marvel movies—good ol’ Avengers, of course—quickly followed by Sam, who couldn’t even have finished the whole movie. Dean smiled dryly at his brothers as he stood and turned off their TV set, taking the afghan spread on the back of the couch and putting it on top of the two boys. Both of them could sleep for twelve hours in one night and _still_ take three hour naps the following day without having to do anything. Mary easily wrote it off as the effects of growing, and Dean agreed—both of them were shooting up like blades of grass, he wouldn’t be surprised if both of them outgrew him in the next year or so.

He scowled. He _so_ did not want to see that happen.

He stretched, smiling contentedly when he heard his back pop, before deciding to go up to his room, but he was stopped by his dad calling him from the porch.

“Yeah?” he asked, closing the front door behind him. John was standing on the driveway, two pails of water by his feet, the Impala in full view of everyone who deigned to look at their little home. He knew there was only one thing that could mean, and he grinned and nodded in silent agreement, walking toward the car and catching the piece of foam he was tossed.

The Impala has always been beautiful—all muscle and chrome and purring engine—and Dean loved making sure it stayed that way, reveling every time John asked for his help in maintaining or checking on the engine, or washing the upholstery, or wiping off the dust, or doing any maintenance at all. He _loved_ working on the Impala, and he loved it even more whenever he could do it with his father.

They were both quiet as they worked, but Dean was content with that. His father has always been a busy man, even when Dean was younger, and every spare moment Dean could have with him was greatly treasured. When they were done, John invited Dean to sit with him by the porch, on the swing they put up together during winter break. Dean was surprised when he was handed a can of beer.

“Are you condoning underage drinking?” he asked in the most scandalous voice and tone he could muster, looking at his father wide eyed. He accepted the beer can, though, falling into the swing bench, belying his words. “I thought you were all for making sure I grew up well or something.”

“The fact that you’re questioning the morality of my actions _means_ I’ve made sure you grew up well,” John Winchester said sagely, nodding at his own words before taking a sip of his beer. “Your mam and I did good, didn’t we?”

Dean snorted. “ _Mam_ ,” he repeated. But he agreed with his father. They must have made stupid decisions in their lives— _a Hunter? A Letter?! Married! With_ children _._ Three _children_ —but he has to admit that they did well by their family. They made their beds, dug their graves, and they’re laying in it, or however those saying about your choices went. And it made Dean proud. In the few times a year he saw them, he knew his parents’ parents were proud of them, too, proud that they broke whatever silence had been going on between the Men of Letters and the Hunter Network, and they made it work. He remembered each and every sneer, every upturned nose, every snide remark—how the Hunters saw the Letters to be stuck-up, secretive geeks; how the Letters saw the Hunters as violent, uncivilized barbarians. “You did,” he said lowly, nodding to his dad. “You did _great_ , dad.”

He didn’t turn to look, but he knew his father was smiling as he placed a large, acknowledging hand on Dean’s shoulder. “And you’re making us proud,” John said assertively, taking another sip of beer. Dean hasn’t even opened his own. “I’m sure you will, and your brothers will, too.”

Dean decided he wouldn’t be spoiling this moment with his ideals, and quietly nodded. John didn’t pull his hand away, which Dean expected, but instead he slid his hand across to Dean’s other shoulder and pulled him into a one-armed hug.

“It’s a dad thing,” John defended, when Dean chuckled, and Dean let out a bark of laughter.

“Just admit that you’re a softie, dad,” Dean teased, patting his dad’s hand. “We all know you love your princess.”

Dean laughed again as John pushed him, rather violently, with a low mocking sound. And then John started laughing, too, and Dean thought it was probably the most laid back he has ever seen John Winchester in forever. It made his grin turn softer, made his chest feel the same warmth from his morning, not quite replacing the cold of uncertainty and guilt and confusion, but mixing with it like a potion. He couldn’t quite describe how it felt, not even to himself, but he was once more glad that he could feel something other than the harsh cold being unsure of his own footing.

Only when both Winchester men were calm enough to resume breathing relatively normally did they notice that they had company—one wearing a suit and tie ensemble. His appearance—not only at a rather personal time with his father, but also at the time of his life that was most unclear even to himself—made Dean dislike and be suspicious of him immediately.

“Mr. Winchester,” the man said in a thick accent Dean couldn’t quite place, bowing to John, before looking at Dean with clear distaste. “Mr. Winchester. I would like to request audience with, ah, the Winchester couple, if I may.”

This time, Dean did sneer at the man. _Who called it audience anymore_? he wondered. _Stuck up librarians_ ran through his mind in neon letters as he shook his head in disdain. “I will collect my mother,” he said, mock formally, rolling his eyes before turning on his heel. “Meanwhile, father, please escort our _guest_ —” he spat the word out, glaring over his shoulder “—to the shed. Mother will join you shortly.”

John didn’t react in any outward fashion, but the slight crinkling of the corner of his eyes made Dean smile proudly as he went inside in search of his mother. Adam and Sam were now awake and watching TV again. He ruffled their hair as he passed.

“Where’s mom?” he asked the kids.

“Laundry room,” they both answered at the same time. “She said to bring down your dirty clothes,” Sam added, glancing at him before training his eyes back to the television. The mention of laundry made him remember the set of clothes that he had lent Simon, who was still probably unconscious and healing at the Institute, who he hasn’t gone to look at today. He nodded at his brothers as he went down the hallway that led to the door which opened to a set of cement steps to the laundry room.

“Mom?” he called. “You got someone ‘requesting audience’ at the court,” he added. “Which is to say the shed.”

Mary’s twinkling laugh answered him, and he waited as she came up the stairs and shook her head at him. “Let me guess,” she said, “you told him that, didn’t you.”

“I didn’t call it _court_ ,” he defended blithely, “but… well, let’s just say I would be expecting _audience_ from grandpa Henry in the next few weeks.”

Mary laughed again, passing by Dean and leading them back to the living room. “Bring down your laundry, young man,” she told Dean before going into the kitchen. He heard the backdoor open, and then close, before going down the hallway again, pretending to be going to his room to his laundry.

He gave it two minutes before sneaking past his brothers—whose attention was jointly trained on the movie they were both watching quite raptly—and snuck into the kitchen, making sure to lift the kitchen door before pushing it open. He had learned that trick when he was fifteen and trying to sneak _inside_ the house at one in the morning, and he was glad he did as he quietly ran to the shed, pressing his back against the wood and moving to the closest window.

He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but the cold in the pit of his stomach was beginning to feel too closely to dread, and he wanted to find proof that he shouldn’t be feeling this way. He didn’t know when he started distrusting his own parents, but he couldn’t quite place the urge to prove to himself that they didn’t know anything about what was happening—that the Network and the Letters were just as clueless as he was about the recent events, about the Shadowhunters, about _Simon_.

“Inexplicable flares,” he heard his mother repeat flatly. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Last night we saw a flare in the local hospital,” the man said, and Dean could _hear_ the sneer in his voice. “The local _Hunter_ hospital, and just a few moments after you and your _son_ entered.”

“How did you know about me and Dean going in there?” Mary challenged, obviously picking up on the way he had said ‘Hunter’ and ‘son’. Dean did, too. He couldn’t say he wasn’t affected. “Are you trespassing on Hunter grounds now, Mr. Ambassador? Are you harassing Hunters for answers to questions that you couldn’t quite figure out? Are we going back to that now?”

 _So it had been worse._ “It is our right! You—you are barbarians!”

“I will have to ask you to stop speaking of my wife and family this way, Ambassador.” It was John. “It is disrespectful, and if it is not an apology that will fall from your lips the next time you open them, I will have to ask you to leave. And never come back. This may be brought up at the next meeting.”

There was a tense silence. “I _apologize_ ,” the man said as sarcastically as possible, but he continued speaking before either of Dean’s parents could. “But John, I have to remind you, the last this happened, it was during these times as well. It was under _these_ terms. Your… your family seems to be right in the middle of it.” His voice had turned softer, and Dean had to strain to continue listening, but he could only pick up a select few words. “The Uprising”. “Fifteen years ago”. “The signing”.

It was making him feel colder and colder, and not just because of the confusing conversation—but also because of what his mother had said. The Men of Letters had _trespassed_ on a Hunter hospital. He wondered if there were legal repercussions to those actions, if there were legal repercussions of _him_ barging into the Institute.

He took a deep breath and ran towards the house. 

 

**..--..**

 

Mornings in the Institute were usually laid back affairs, seeing as most Shadowhunters went out for patrol at night and slept in until late morning or noon or early afternoon. This morning wasn’t a morning, it was actually almost three in the afternoon, but there was nothing different about today, just like there wasn’t anything different about yesterday, or the day before that, or _the day before that_. Three days ago, they found out that there were now mundanes who could see them, but one of them was a Hunter and Letter—Alec had stayed up all night trying to read up on that, but even with the Institute’s expansive well of knowledge, there weren’t many volumes that spoke of them—and one of them was healing in the infirmary.

Alec was, as usual, the last one up among them. Hodge was already clearing up his plates, Hugo cawing at him disapprovingly from his perch on one of the vacant chairs. Jace was busy eating, and Izzy was staring at him with her arms crossed against her chest. Her hair was in uncharacteristic disarray—but it was how she usually looked when she had just woken up, it wasn’t anything new.

He frowned at her. “What?” he asked, close to defensively, because he honestly didn’t know what his sister could be staring at him about.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” she said flatly, and she sounded miffed.

“I had quite literally just woken up,” he told her, voice and face blank. “I have no idea what could have pissed you off already.”

Izzy rolled her eyes at him, annoyed and obviously part of her temper could be blamed on the fact that it was morning. Yes, Alec was blaming her inexplicable anger to the hour of the day. “We’re going on patrol tonight,” Izzy told him, and she _was_ angry, “but Hodge said we need your permission to go.”

Alec blinked, surprised, before looking up to Hodge for explanation and clarification. It felt strange, suddenly, being the center of that, being the one who could make decisions for his sister and his _parabatai_. Usually they were both willing and headstrong enough on their own that he just needed to follow to look out for them, to watch their backs, because they never really asked him for _permission_ before.

“The past few days have made me reluctant to allow just two of you to make a decision,” Hodge explained mildly, the look he sent to Alec saying _I shouldn’t have to explain this_. “There are too many risks with what happened yesterday and the day before that, and I would like for all decisions to pass through _you_ , since you are eldest and the only one who has taken the Oath.”

Alec frowned at him. “But I usually agree with them anyway,” he said, pointing to the table where Izzy and Jace were still seated, eating breakfast, _breakfast that Alec hasn’t have had yet_. _What do you call meals you have between lunch and dinner? It’s breakfast. I just woke up._ “What’s the point?”

“The point, Alec,” Hodge said, “is that I will be listening to _you_ , not to them. They won’t be doing anything until you’ve agreed to it or planned for it.”

With that, their tutor stormed out, his large bird following him with a loud _caw_ that made Isabelle cringe. He looked at Jace and Izzy. “I told you so,” Jace said to Izzy, who was glaring after Hodge.

“We’re not children!” Isabelle protested. “How could he treat us like children?”

“You kind of are,” Alec said mildly, taking on Hodge’s tone without him realizing it. “You are children. You haven’t taken the Oath yet.”

Izzy just continued to glare at him, but otherwise remained quiet. And then Jace engaged them in conversation, and that was that.

 

*.*

 

A few hours later, all three of them were showered, geared, armed, glamored, and walking down the port, where they usually began their patrols at night. It wasn’t fully dark yet, but both Jace and Alec had seraph blades in their fists and Izzy had her whip, the gold weapon trailing on the ground behind her like a glittering snake.

They heard a scuffle—they glanced at each other, and then Jace and Izzy were off, Alec bounding behind them, making sure nothing was following them, planning on attacking them from behind. The three of them rounded the corner one after the other, but all three of them saw the man—no, a teenager, someone who looked just a few months older than Alec—standing over the demon, staring at them. They all heard the demon—a Greater Demon, gurgling piteously, its head held in the man’s fist. It seemed impossible, how a single man—a mundane by the look of him, at that: a long, dark coat, a white shirt, a pair of blue trousers, sensible shoes; he didn’t have runes, nor a weapon that Alec could see—could hold down a _Greater Demon_ , who—

“ _Stop this,_ ” it said, _pleaded_ , and Alec felt both of his companions tense. A demon never _pleaded_. “You weren’t in the plans—”

It happened so quickly, Alec wasn’t sure he would have seen it if he weren’t a Nephilim. The man drew a sword—purely silver, but deadly and dangerous even from the distance—from his sleeve and plunged it between the demon’s ribs, and it died instantly—not in a shower of ichor and dust as it usually would have, but in a bizarre array of lights before it disappeared. He never said anything.

The man was walking before it disappeared completely, and before they could register anything, they were following the young man. He seemed to be waiting for them anyway, whenever he disappeared down an alley or a corner. Alec knew it was potentially dangerous, but he couldn’t stop his _parabatai_ or sister from following the young man. Better to make sure they stay safe in this endeavor.

The man led them to an old, shabby warehouse in one of the more abandoned parts of the city, and it confused the Shadowhunters. The man went inside without looking if they followed.

“Should we…” Isabelle trailed off uncertainly, gesturing to the rusted double doors. It was old and obviously abandoned—the paint, or what was left of it, was peeling off, but the most has been weathered away and was showing either the silver of the aluminum underneath or red, unhealthy rust. It was a tall building though, about three stories—the windows were all either boarded up or had glass panes stained so badly they knew it was impossible for light to permeate it.

There wasn’t much light left anyway, and they knew that whatever was inside, it was now more dangerous. But they must have been led here for a reason, right? They could have been led here like cattle to their deaths…

“Let’s go,” Jace said, and stepped forward with certainty. Alec sighed, gesturing for his sister to go before him. Before he entered the darkness of the warehouse he cast their surroundings one last, long look.

Jace had drawn a _nychteriní̱s_ rune on his throat, and he had drawn one on his _parabatai_ , but it was useless to the pitch-black darkness inside the warehouse. As one the three Shadowhunters drew their witchlight and raised them over their heads, the silver glow casting a dim brightness that made the inside look less threatening, but that much more old.

It was mostly empty, except for old, crumbling walls and the broken tiles under their feet.

Alec’s head shot up when he heard Izzy gasp, and he gasped, too, at the sight that greeted him. There were two people— _mundanes_ , this time he was sure—strung up to the ceiling by thin strings that were digging into their skin, bloodletting tubes attached to their jugulars. There were buckets of blood by their feet, and Alec thought, _vampires_ , but vampires didn’t make their victims hang like meat in abandoned warehouses.

His mind flashed to the mysterious man, and thought if this was his fault. He let go of that notion quickly—he was sure he led them here to _rescue_ these mundanes, and to make sure that whatever it was that did this paid for it. He didn’t stop to think why he couldn’t have done it himself, instead helped Izzy cut down from his restraints the male, who moaned piteously. His eyes were shifting under his lids, but he didn’t wake.

Alec removed the pin from the man’s jugular, and Izzy let him rest before the woman that Jace had released. They were both unconscious, but they were both shifting, as if—

“Are they—are they _drugged_?” Izzy asked harshly, bending to pick up Alec’s withlight and handing it to him. “They look drugged.”

They’ve seen people drugged by powdered demon blood _and_ mundane drugs. These two looked like them. But that didn’t explain why they were in an abandoned warehouse, half-dead from blood loss, strung up like meat for feeding.

The three of them were interrupted by a crash to their left—a hallway that Alec knew led down deeper into the warehouse.

The four—yes, four, they were now accompanied by another, and _not_ the man from earlier—of them froze and exchanged glances, before Jace finally remembered he was a Shadowhunter and shot forward, the creature turning to run with the Shadowhunters soon in hot pursuit.

Alec couldn’t understand what it was that he had just seen—he looked like a Shadowhunter, with Marks covering his skin, but he looked strange as well, and it didn’t explain why he was running off _if_ he was here to rescue the mundanes as well.

He was suddenly sure, with the conviction of a warrior, that this was the creature that had done this to those mundanes. This was the creature the young man from earlier had led them here to kill, and it was his duty as a warrior to make sure that it didn’t survive to see another day.

He sped up, hissing, “ _Barakiel_ ,” naming his seraph blade, joining his sister’s side.

He did not notice the second creature advance on them from behind.

 

*.*


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode reference: Season 1 Episode 1 (obvs lol)

He did notice, though, when the creature tried to grab at him and he turned, slashing with _Kabshiel_ and missing it by mere centimeters. It was a female this time, its hair long and bright like a piece of cloth trailing it from behind. He accidentally dropped his witchlight, but it didn’t matter— _Kabshiel_ brightened in his hand, and he attacked, and he heard Izzy and Jace holding their own against the other creature as well.

“Young blood,” the female said, eyes wide as it stared at Alec’s neck—his pulse. “Young blood, _look_.”

“Ours now,” the male laughed, and Alec registered the sound of battle, but he was deeper into the trance than he ever had been, his instincts on overdrive as he made sure his sister and _parabatai_ were safe, his mind an unending stream of _Jace – Izzy – parry – block – lunge – Jace – Izzy – JaceIzzyJaceIzzy_ but he didn’t mind, liked the way the battle kept him from being distracted, liked that having the _parabatai_ bond gave him an advantage as he the female danced, like a dangerous tango, step forward and back and again, lunge and parry and avoid—

“ _We can make all your dreams come true,”_ the creature told him confidingly, dancing away from his blade. It was a good fighter. “ _Try it, you’ll love it. We can make all your dreams come true.”_

Her words were enough to burst through the trance of battle, and he stuttered, but it was enough that the creature touched his neck. He cried out as he felt a burning sensation where it touched him, and then—

 _Gold smile, trained at him._ Why _? That gold smile is yours. Gold smile, under his mouth, hands roaming, delicious laughter on his tongue—_

“Alec!” Izzy screamed, and Alec gasped, finally registering that he was on the ground, shaking, his mind confused, going from one trance to another, being snapped back to reality like a rubber band.

“Djinn,” he gasped at her.

“Genie?” Jace demanded, and he heard him move, heard the sounds of fighting, and he felt sick. He had to make sure _one_ didn’t get through their defenses, and he _did_. He let it _touch him_.

“Djinn,” Alec corrected, voice still wavering. _All my dreams. Gold, gold, gold, all mine, him, please_. “Its— _avoid its touch,_ Jace!”

And Jace did, graceful as a cat, slunking back from the Djinn’s touch and then lunging. “I should wonder how you know that,” Jace said conversationally, “but I find myself uncaring.”

“ _Concentrate_ ,” Alec gritted out, his sudden sadness and frustration turning into irritation.

The Djinns smiled at him at once.

“Enjoyed it, didn’t you?” the female asked him as it avoided Jace’s blade. Not quickly enough though—he nicked its ear, and it screamed. “We have more!” she shouted, before retreating, the male following it closely.

“We have to go after them,” Jace said. “But we must corner them. They are quick.”

Alec shook his head. “Let’s split up, then,” he said. “I’ll follow them through here,” he said, pointing at the hallway they disappeared to. “Be quick.”

The two other Shadowhunters nodded, and then they were off. Alec snagged the witchlight from the floor and ran, facing off against the darkness, the light casted by his blade and witchlight making him more like an avenging angel.

 

*.*

 

They corner him at a dead end. They must have heard their plan, because they were suddenly just _there_ , grinning dementedly at them, their Marks flowing like snakes on their skin by Alec’s light.

“Oh, it’s you,” the female said, “did you like it? Everything you want, the life you want…” she looked meaningfully at him. “…the _one_ you want. Don’t you want it? Let yourself be caught, little one, oh fresh blood.”

Alec scowled and fought them off as best as he could, remembering he was a Shadowhunter, knowing he could take care of these two creatures on his own. He gulped. He has never killed anything before. But he could make sure these were his first.

 _Jace_ , something in him whispered, and he almost remembered the hallucination brought about by the Djinn’s touch. _Not true,_ he told himself. _That wasn’t true. It will_ never _be true_.

The two creatures moved fast, but he moved faster—when one  of them were able to come close enough to touch him, he swung _Kabshiel_ and cut its hand off at the wrist. The female screamed, but Alec ignored it and advanced on the male, who became angrier by the second each time Alec managed to avoid its hand.

“ _Get caught_ ,” it was hissing at him, but he ignored it. _“Get caught. Get caught. Get caught._ ”

And he did.

He forgot about the female.

 

**..--..**

 

Jace knew something was wrong even before he felt the _parabatai_ bond go shallow, like it did in that half-second after the Djinn had touched Alec. He gave a vicious curse and ran, up towards where their bond was pulling him to. Izzy had already dispatched one of the Djinns when he got there, and the other was too distracted with keeping her away from Alec that it didn’t notice Jace until he was sinking _Ariel_ into its back.

It screamed, gurgled, and died, and both Shadowhunters were rushing to Alec’s side, who was breathing shallowly but was already coming to. “He wasn’t held that long,” Izzy told him, pressing the back of her hand against her brother’s forehead, as if he had a fever. “They were too busy keeping him under they didn’t notice me. He must have been putting up a fight.”

Jace nodded shallowly, far more worried than he’d admit for his _parabatai_. “Let’s get him out of here, then,” he said lithely, moving to lift Alec from the ground. Izzy followed behind him, her quiet footfalls accompanying his down the wooden, rotten steps and back to the lobby where the two mundanes were still unconscious. Alec was waking up when Jace set him down on the ground, blinking, confused, calling, “Jace?” softly.

“You’re alright,” Izzy said immediately, patting his forehead. “You were only under for a few minutes. You’re okay.”

“Under,” Alec repeated, and he closed his eyes. Jace wasn’t actually sure what a Djinn _did_ , but he didn’t like the pure _sorrow_ he was receiving from the bond. He couldn’t understand it. He didn’t know where it could _come from_ , but making sure Alec was strong enough to stand and walk on his own, Jace took the man and Izzy the lady, and the three of them walked outside to the port.

The summer night was stifling. “What do we do about them?” Jace asked, setting the man down beside where Izzy had already set the other one. She was seated beside Alec, who was cradling his head in his hands.

She had her phone in hers. “I’ll call Dean,” she said, and proceeded to do just that. Jace frowned at her, but before he could speak or protest, he was being instructed to carry the mundane to a street a block or two away, where Dean would call an ambulance to pick the mundanes up. They together, glamored, at the side of the mundanes and waited until an ambulance came to pick them up—the people jumping off in yellow suits and blue shirts and shouting at each other and talking into little black boxes clipped by their shoulders.

“So,” Jace drawled, stepping back to avoid being run over by another mundane. “How come you have _Dean’s_ number?”

“I found it lying around,” Izzy said breezily, staring as the ambulance doors closed and the lights on top started flashing as it drove away. “Shall we go? I’m sure Alec is exhausted.”

And he was. Jace knew it, felt it from their bond, but he didn’t say anything. They took the train back to the Institute, all three of them too tired and impatient to walk all the way. Jace remembered belatedly that they haven’t finished their patrol, but the image of the man by the docks reminded him they might not need to, anymore.

He was suspicious of why he couldn’t have killed the Djinns himself, though—why he had to lead them to the warehouse and forsake them when they faced the monsters. Izzy forced Alec and Jace into the infirmary when they got back to the Institute, insisting they needed _iratzes_ before they went off their own ways.

They didn’t talk about the unconscious mundane, but Jace found himself staring at him on the bed, even as he was drawing a healing rune on his _parabatai_ ’s neck, not even noticing the burn of Alec’s stele digging into his skin after he was done.

“Don’t you wonder about the man who led us there, though?” Alec said quietly when he was done with Jace. This time he was putting a rune on Izzy, eyes trained so intensely on his task Jace would have been afraid he’d set fire to his sister’s skin. “He seemed to have… disappeared.”

“I’m not interested in him right now,” Izzy said bitterly, “you got hurt. And he _left us there_ , Alec.”

“Exactly,” her brother answered, straightening his back, but not meeting either of their eyes. “Don’t you think it’s strange that someone who had a demon _pleading_ would leave us to take care of a pair of Djinns?”

They were all quiet for a while. They couldn’t reach a conclusion, not without even _understanding_ what they saw in the first place. The demon had told the man he wasn’t part of ‘the plans’, and they had no idea what those ‘plans’ were. It could be connected to all the allegations of Valentine rising from the dead, or it could be anything.

Things were getting more and more tedious, and Jace had no good feelings about it. “He waited for us,” Alec said suddenly. “He waited for us, before he killed that demon. Didn’t you notice?”

Jace did now.

 

**..--..**

 

“He hasn’t called me yet.”

“Me neither.” Charlie worried her lips between her teeth. “What do you think we should do? Should we try to call him again?”

“It’s Dean _Winchester_ ,” Clary told her, tone mocking as if Charlie didn’t know the connotations of his name. Dean was well-known to be a heartbreaker wherever he went, and had a lot of people obsessing over him when he gave them a chance at a date, and had perfected the art of avoidance in response. “We should stage an intervention,” her friend said. Clary’s tone was low and worried, and Charlie understood everything she was feeling—Dean and Simon were both brothers to him now, the family she has never thought she could ever have, but the past few days…

“We should,” she agreed. “Simon hasn’t been answering his phone either, has he?”

“No,” Clary said. “Straight to voicemail.”

There was a beat of silence. It wasn’t like Dean or Simon to not answer their phones when they are called, especially not by either Charlie or Clary. They had made a promise to always be available in case one needed all the others, and right now Charlie needed to know that Dean and Simon were okay.

After the hasty farewell from yesterday, Charlie was extra worried. She understood that Simon could be cooling off right now, trying to get over whatever the emergency was, but he should at least have left his phone on, right? It was the only plausible reason that all their calls were going straight into voicemail.

“I called the Winchesters today,” Clary said conversationally, “Sammy answered. He said he didn’t know where Dean was, that he left suddenly. Their parents were busy.”

“Aren’t they always?” Charlie muttered. “We could always call again.”

“Or we could go to their house.”

Charlie checked her clock. “It’s almost ten in the evening, Clary. Are you crazy? It’s impolite to go a knockin’ at this hour of night!”

“Not if you’re worried for your friends!” Clary sounded harsh. “I don’t like this, Charlie, you know how they’ve both been acting weird since Pandemonium. Something happened that night, and we’re going to find out. We’ll be impolite if we need to, but I’m _worried_.”

 _So am I,_ Charlie thought, but she smartly kept her thoughts to herself. “Wait for me, I’ll pass by your house,” she said instead, already rising from her bed. “I’ll be there in about twenty.”

“See ya.”

She hung up, but Charlie took a quick change of clothes before she left the house, putting off her air conditioning and locking the door behind her. It was dark out, but it was hot—summers were _brutal_ every year at New York. There were rarely any cool nights—usually it came with rain, which was good and all, but the roads _stink_ whenever it rains after long periods of drought.

Her thoughts turned to the plans she and the others have made for this summer—for this week alone, and how both Simon and Dean were breaking all of them without any word to them at all. Simon, she could understand—his mom had sprung a vacation none of them were expecting on him. She couldn’t understand Dean’s sudden absence and distance though, because he _never_ broke plans, not even when they overlapped with his schedule—he always made time. He could be a little late, he could stay only for a short while, but he never broke promises.

Until now.

The train station was filled with only the last passengers of the day, the PA system announcing it was the last ride for the evening. Charlie hoped Dean was willing to drive her home—she did _not_ want to commute at this hour, but she had no choice. She snagged a seat right beside the door, the only ones in her coach a pair of lovers who were kissing and an elderly woman who was asleep.

She was wearing pajamas, for Vulcan’s sake, and an old, ratty t-shirt. She hadn’t thought for too long about what to wear, but she thought she should have worn shoes instead of flip flops, though she would have looked ridiculous.

The station closest to Clary’s and Dean’s street was three blocks away, but Charlie psyched herself and stepped off, walking as fast as she could without running towards her destination. She was strung out, alert and at the ready, thinking she would probably scream like a little girl if anyone or anything decided to jump her.

 _Too much video games, too many movies_ , she scolded herself as she turned the corner to Clary’s street. _You’re scaring yourself over nothing, Bradbury, relax, you’re almost—_

“Oh Merlin’s _beard_ ,” she exclaimed when she was finally at Clary’s side. “You have to stop me from binging from now on,” she babbled, nodding shallowly as she willed her heart rate to slow down back to normal. “I don’t like being scared. At all. It hurts.”

Clary laughed, a twinkling sound that relaxed Charlie’s frayed nerves. “Come on, Bradbury,” she said, hooking their arms together. “Off to an adventure!”

“Saying that jinxes _everything_ , Lewis,” Charlie muttered, but she was smiling, and then she started skipping along right beside the shorter redhead. “But who cares, right? It’s not like we have Saphira, or any dragon _at all_ , but we do have Clary Lewis, who could punch you in the nose—”

“Charlie,” Clary said.

Charlie looked at her. She smiled.

“Relax.”

And she did, until they reached the Winchester house. She hasn’t been here in _forever_ , and he was glad that the lights were still on as Clary went right on ahead to ring the doorbell. “Clary!” she scolded.

Clary shrugged. “You wouldn’t have done it.”

Yeah, because Clary was the more adventurous of the both of them. Her thoughts were cut off as the door opened and light from inside spilled to the yard, and when they looked, Mary Winchester stood there, staring at them.

“Is Dean in?” Charlie inquired, seeing as Clary wasn’t going to say anything soon.

Mary blinked at them for a second longer, and Charlie thought it really _was_ too late for a social call, but then she shook her head. “He’s not,” she said, “but do you two want to come in to wait? I’d rather have him drive you home.”

She was already walking towards the gate, though, opening it and letting them in. Both girls were grateful as they followed her inside the house, finding it cool and cozy and well-lit. Charlie immediately expired on the couch, disturbing Sam, who yelled at her and moved his arms away. Adam was seated on the floor by his foot, holding a similar joystick, and when she looked, she laughed.

They were playing _Smash_. It was one of her personal favorites, and Dean’s, and of _course_ that goof would make sure his brothers played it as well.

“Do you know where your brother is?” Clary asked Adam, who she had sat beside, watching the screen as well.

“No,” the nine-year-old answered absently, yelling out in victory as he successfully threw Sam off with a well-aimed banana peeling. “He left earlier. I think he’ll be home soon.”

“I hope so,” Clary muttered. “What has he been doing today?”

“Nothing.”

So, this wasn’t going anywhere, but Charlie noticed Mr. and Mrs. Winchester might be. There were two large luggage bags by the kitchen door, looking worn and old and ready to go. She frowned. Was Dean going on vacation, too? Was that the reason he hasn’t been answering his phone either? Was he—

Okay.

 _None of your friends are leaving you_ , she told herself firmly. _Simon is going on vacation with his mom. You don’t know why Dean’s parents are packed up. They’re not leaving you_.

“Travelling?”

Her attention was piqued by Clary’s voice, and when she looked, her friend was questioning John Winchester, who stood awkwardly beside the couch. “Er,” he said, “we’re going out of town for a bit of business,” he finally said, very vaguely. “Dean might have the house for a while. His brothers are going to South Dakota.”

“He’s not going with you?” Charlie asked, but it wasn’t hope blooming in her chest. It was confusion.

“No,” John said, frowning at her.

“I would have thought… Simon’s mom just sprung a vacation on him yesterday,” she said, looking away from John and frowning as well. “I thought you guys were going on one, too.”

John shook his head. “It’s just for a few days. Where did Jocelyn take Simon?”

Sometimes, Charlie envied his friends for having actual parents. She lived under her cousin’s guidance, and none of his friends’ parents know him. She barely sees him herself. It took her by surprise that John used Simon’s mom’s name, but the sudden _hurt_ surprised her even more. “Luke’s farmhouse,” she finally answered. “Where _is_ Dean? He hasn’t been answering his phone.”

“He’ll probably be back in a bit,” Mary said. “Have you had dinner?”

Charlie and Clary both responded with the positive, and soon enough, the adults left them to watch Dean’s younger brothers try to smash each other by throwing random items at their carts. Adam was laughing, as he was in the lead; Sam was trying to kick him in the head. Charlie had always had a soft spot for kids, but Dean’s younger siblings will always have a special place in her heart. They were part of the family that had easily welcomed someone who was practically an orphan into its folds, and Charlie will love them especially because they were both geeks.

Clary was quiet, but when Charlie glanced at her, she was holding onto a paperback, frowning at it as if it would reveal answers to the questions of the universe if she kept it up. It was adorable.

They were covered in silence when the door finally opened to reveal Dean. Sam and Adam had finished playing fifteen minutes ago, after what Charlie soon learned was his third consecutive defeat—he had pulled the plug to the tv set in frustration, leading to a laughing fit that lasted about five minutes.

They weren’t laughing now. Dean was bloody and breathless on the door, his clothes dusty and sooty and torn in places—he would have to burn it. His eyes were bright and wild, staring blankly at Charlie and Clary, who were looking at him in horror and confusion. Charlie registered absently that neither of the younger boys seemed disturbed that their older brother came home _bloody_.

“Did you get into a fight?!” Clary yelled, breaking the spell, shooting up and flying to Dean, pulling him into the house and closing the door behind him. His hair was plastered to his forehead by sweat, and his shirt was wet with it as well, but Clary didn’t seem to care. “Dean Winchester! What happened?”

“Uh,” Sam began, looking from Dean, to Clary, to Charlie, and then back up to his brother. “Dean?”

“Does this happen often?” Charlie asked, moving out of the couch so Dean could sit down. Clary was still fluttering about him, fingertips pressing against a rather large bruise on his cheekbone.

“Do—Sam! Get me some ice, please?” Clary ordered, her voice firm. She brokered no arguments as she tugged at Dean’s shirt, who relinquished it in quiet wonder as he stared at Clary. Both Clary and Charlie gasped—there were small wounds and scratch marks and bluing bruises on his ribs and chest and back. Whatever fight Dean had gotten into, it was ugly. _Ugly as hell_. She went to the kitchen and grabbed a piece of cloth, wetting it and avoiding crashing into Sam, who was running back to the living room with a smoking bag in his hands.

Clary wrapped the ice pack with Dean’s ruined shirt, instructing him to put it over his cheek. Dean followed her words wordlessly, not even flinching when Charlie started wiping off dirt and dust and blood from his skin. He was badly injured—but not bad enough to have to go to the hospital.

“Dean!”

Charlie looked up. Mary looked worried, watching over Dean’s shoulder and Charlie and Clary continued to clean Dean’s wounds, but not worried enough for her. She didn’t have much of a basis of parental worry, but mothers should be more protective, right? She looked more worried for Charlie and Clary, Merlin’s beard— _her son was bleeding_.

“Mrs. Winchester,” Clary called, “I need a first aid kit.”

But Mrs. Winchester didn’t move. Her eyebrows scrunched together in silence, and then Dean was pushing Charlie away and catching Clary’s wrists in his hand, stopping her from moving. “I’m going to get a shower,” he told them softly. To his mom, “I’m telling them, mom. Call dad down here. Sam, Adam, come on, bedtime.”

Both boys followed as Dean stood, leaving Clary kneeling on the couch, stunned and frozen. Mary looked more worried _now_ , but she did turn to call her husband, probably. Tell them what? What would Dean tell them now that he hasn’t before? Did this have anything to do with the past few days, about Simon, about Dean’s injuries?

Charlie gently grabbed Clary around the waist, feeling her melt against her chest as she moved to sit down, setting Clary beside her. John and Mary Winchester entered the living room in silence, looking from Clary and Charlie. John took a seat, but Mary grabbed Dean’s shirt from Clary’s shaking hands, putting it somewhere in the kitchen. Clary sat on her hands and smiled at Charlie, but her eyes were weighed down by uncertainty and worry.

Charlie smiled back. Mary came into the living room again, sitting down beside her impassive and quiet husband, who was looking at Charlie before turning his eyes to Clary. Did they know about Dean’s activities? That he was getting hurt? Was Dean—was he _street fighting_? That was illegal. Were they making him work? She didn’t know what Dean’s parents did for a living, but she knew for a fact that Mary didn’t. John was rarely ever at home, when he was, he was in a monkeysuit. Suits paid great money, right? Would they still ask Dean to work even then?

“This is dangerous,” John Winchester muttered, but Charlie saw Mary tighten her hold on his hand.

“It’s high time they knew, John,” she said mildly, smiling at Charlie and Clary, who were staring at them quite openly. “Dean trusts them. _We_ trust them,” she reminded him. “I’m sure Dean knows what he’s doing.”

John sighed, rubbing his free hand on his face. The next time he spoke, he addressed the girls. “Do you know where Simon is?” he asked.

Charlie and Clary both shook their heads. “That’s why we came,” Clary said, looking to the floor before looking defiantly up at the adults. “Neither he nor Dean has been answering his phone. We got worried. The last time we saw them, Dean was saying something about an emergency with Simon’s mom.”

The glance Mary and John exchanged made worry clench in Charlie’s stomach. “What?” Charlie asked them. “What is it? Why are you looking at each other?”

They hesitated. Then, “This is Dean’s story to tell,” Mary said, glancing at the hallway, where Dean finally appeared. He was freshly showered and newly changed, the bruise on his cheek a lighter color now than it was earlier. Clary insisted on him holding the icepack on it, and he acquiesced as he sat down on the loveseat, the only other comfortable furniture available.

He looked worried, and honestly, a little scared, but Mary was right, this was his story to tell. Whatever it was, he had kept it from them for long enough. It’s time they found out.

Dean looked nervous, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing at his parents before, after staring at Charlie and Clary for a few long minutes, resolution and firmness flickered in his eyes and he straightened, back rod straight and eyes trained solely on the girls.

His posture made Charlie feel uncomfortable. In the four years she had known Dean Winchester, he had never been formal. He was a jackass, he was sarcastic, he made bad puns and laughed at his own joked when no one else would. The way he was looking now, though… She glanced at Clary, and the frown on her face told Charlie that she felt the same way.

“Okay,” Clary finally said, breaking the silence, “okay. Tell us what you need to.”

“Can I...” Dean hesitated, just for a second, before shaking his head. “The things I will tell you—most  of them are going to be... to be impossible to believe,” he finally settled on. “It’s crazy. It’s—it’s crazier than the _dingo ate my baby_ crazy. So. I would like to ask you _not_ to interrupt while I am speaking. Can you—can you do that?”

“I will interrupt you if you don’t spit the asshole that I know out,” Clary threatened, and the glare she sent the Winchester parents dared them to argue with her. They didn’t. Charlie was impressed—she had known Clary to be foolhardy and headstrong, but this was a new standard, even for her. She was never disrespectful to elders. _Never_.

Dean’s lips twitched wryly and he chuckled. “Sorry,” he finally said, running his fingers through his still-damp hair. “I’ve just never done this before.” A strange look came over his face, but it passed far too quickly for Charlie to analyze what it could have meant. “Anyway, so let’s start, yeah?”

He cleared his throat.

“Okay, so you know my dad,” he said, gesturing to John, who looked startled that he was going to go first, but he nodded and gave them a small smile. “He’s—we’re—part of a group called the Men of Letters.” He paused. “We’ve been allowing ladies to be initiated for decades, though. I don’t know why they won’t change the name.”

“Aesthetic,” Clary said just as John answered with “misogyny.”

There was a tense silence, before Clary winked at John and John winked back at her. It seemed to give Dean the courage to continue. “And my mom is from another group called the Hunter Network.”

Charlie frowned. “'The Network’?” she repeated. It sounded… familiar.

Mary’s smile was mild when Charlie met her eyes. “Your cousin is a Hunter, too,” she said quietly. “Your family didn’t know. When he ran away, he didn’t go to MIT. He never had the chance. He was attacked by a were on his way, and the Network took him in. He’s out best researcher.”

Charlie was shocked. Ash had volunteered to be her guardian when the doctors released her mom’s prognosis. She has heard of Ash but hasn’t met him yet, back then—he was rarely talked about, but when he was, it was usually to warn the younger kids “not to be like Ash”.

Her hand went to cover her mouth without her say-so.

“Charlie?” Mary asked, moving as if to stand. Would she go to Charlie? Comfort her? Would they answer all the questions she wanted to ask? She didn’t see Ash as frequently as she wished she could, but he had taught her things that she wouldn’t have learned in school or otherwise. He taught her the basics of self-defense, how to work cell phones and computers and every single digital gadget the world has to offer. He gave her her first weapon—

She reached into her pocket, bringing out the switch knife Ash had given her as a birthday gift when she turned sixteen last year. It was part-lighter, the methane inside still largely unused—she had no use for it. She didn’t camp, she didn’t smoke, she didn’t need to light anything up to cook food. The Harley Davidson logo was carved beautifully into the metal work. Ash had given it to Charlie in her motorcycle gang stage, and since then it had been her most valued possession.

She clicked the button that released the mechanism. With a faint snick, the knife flashed up, shining in the fluorescent lights of the Winchester home.

“A silver knife,” Dean said, watching the lighter curiously. He has never seen it before. Charlie has never brought it out before. “Silver protects you from many things—weres, mostly. He probably went for a weapon that could hurt the creature that pulled _him_ into Hunting in the first place.”

“Weres?” Clary repeated, frowning. “Like, werewolves?”

“Weresnakes, wereavians, werecats,” Dean listed off. “Any creature that could transform from a human to an animal form. They’re different from skinwalkers in the sense that they only have two definite forms. Skinwalkers can change theirs anytime they please, it’s a menace tracking them all.”

Charlie nodded at him, wide eyed as she put the knife back into the casing and pocketed the lighter. “Okay,” she said, because she couldn’t actually believe this was anything. This was cool, it was like living in a video game, but also scarier, if even her cousin was taking precautions to keep her safe from it. _Scary and awesome_ , she thought, but the way Dean entered the house earlier...

“So, the Hunter Network. Before my mom and my dad met, the Network and the Letters didn’t really see eye to eye. They stayed away from each other’s business,” Dean said, nodding at his parents. “Shit happens, though, so they got married, and had three kids. I’m eldest. Initiation and training starts when we turn thirteen, but those from outside can enter anytime. Initiation into the Letters has a total of twenty one stages, that you go through in seven years.

“As a Hunter you learn as you go along, but you _do_ learn about what weapons to use, how to kill a certain creature, why you should.”

Charlie frowned. “Why?”

This time, Dean glanced at his parents. He looked rather nervous, to Charlie at least. “There is—there’s the Accords,” he finally said, “it’s like a contract that promised we—Hunters, Letters, whoever else is out there—” he once again glanced at his parents when he said them, Charlie did as well. They both turned to him sharply, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “—are to _protect_ Downworlders—”

“Downworlders,” Clary repeated, frowning. “What are those? The weres, I suppose? Things that come from—from—from Hell? From Tartarus?”

Dean smiled faintly at her. “Usually. But no, Downworlders did not come from hell. Vampirism, wereism, those are viri that came from demons.”

“Demons.”

“I paused for that.” Dean was grinning. “Yes. Demons. _Those_ sons of bitches came from hell. Black eyes, sulfuric smell—those are demons _possessing_ humans. There are other kinds of demons, though it depends on which tier of Hell they came from.”

“Tier, like the circles of Hell?” Charlie asked, frowning.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, something like that. There are also—dimensionals,” he said. “These are creatures that come from other dimensions are than our own.”

There was silence, but Charlie couldn’t help it. “We can’t visit their dimensions, could we?”

“No,” John answered, surprising Charlie. She wasn’t expecting either of them to have to do anything about this, she was expecting that halfway through this story time they would laugh and say everything was a joke. But obviously, no, because _what is my life_. “These dimensions are exactly like our own,” John continued. “Except these other dimensions have already been overrun—the resources splurged, the civilizations ruined. There is nothing there but death, which is why they come to ours—to look for more life.”

“So they’re like,” Clary piped up, “multidimensional parasites?”

Dean frowned but nodded thoughtfully. “That’s actually a good analogy. So, anyway. The Accords protect the Downworlders from being killed indiscriminately. If you’re from Downworld and you go against the terms of the Accords, you are tried for punishment—usually though, if your sin was great, you were easily killed. We have some restrictions, too, of course. We’re not allowed to attack or kill anyone in neutral zones. If we do, we are reported. Usually we are punished with being sent to jail but...”

“...there are other creative modes of punishment,” Mary finished for him, her voice firm. The look in her eyes—there was pain there. There was a story somewhere there. “That’s why on Hunts only dimensionals or demons are usually killed. Downworld likes to protect their own.”

The silence that followed allowed Charlie and Clary to digest what they’ve just learned. It was justifiable then that Dean had come home bloodied and bruised, if he was in a fight with—with Downworlders, or a demon. But how would they know when a Downworlder had broken the terms of these so-called Accords? Dean had said something about tracking them, but wasn’t that a hassle to do?

Clary looked pensive as she stared at Dean with a frown. Charlie wasn’t sure if she fully believed everything she has heard yet, but her cousin _had_ given her a silver knife—protection from the weres, the Winchesters had said. If anything, it was _Clary_ who had no reason to buy this whole shebang at all.

 _What about Simon?_ Charlie thought. _He wasn’t answering his phone. Does he know anything about this? Has Dean told him_? She truly was worried for Simon, but her feelings for him couldn’t quite penetrate the wall of confusion and fear and dread that was suddenly washing over her. The aircon was cooling her off quite effectively, fighting the heat of the summer night, but she was suddenly feeling cold about something else, something she could not quite place, an instinct that made her feel like she wasn’t going to like this, at _all_.

“Charlie?” Dean asked softly, voice gentle as he successfully broke through the crashing and rushing of blood in her ears. She only then noticed she was shaking, hands clutching at her arms. “Charlie, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Clary was there, putting a warm, comforting hand on her thigh, the other hand rubbing soothing circles on her shoulder. _You’ll be fine_ , she was saying with her words and actions. _You’ll be just okay, trust me. Charlie, you’ll be fine, you’ll be okay, come back_.

Charlie took a deep, shuddering breath and shot a strained smile at Dean, who frowned at her in answer. Worry was weighing down on Dean, she could see now. He was obviously worried for her, and for Clary, but also for Simon. Maybe he really didn’t know what happened to that doofus. Maybe he really did just let Simon go yesterday. Maybe. Maybe. _Maybe_. “I’m okay,” she managed to choke out.

Dean didn’t buy it.

Clary didn’t buy it.

 _Charlie_ didn’t believe it. But she had to. She had to hear everything, she had to know. This was something big. This was... this was big.

“How come we’ve never seen them, then?” she asked, looking at Dean. It was the first question that popped into her head that wasn’t a question even _she_ couldn’t understand. “I mean, they must be everywhere, right? Why can’t we see them?”

“They are everywhere,” Dean agreed, even nodding. “And you have seen them, except they usually are wearing a kind of block. A glamour, that hid what made them different from humans. Most of the time though it was all up to your own head.” He tapped at his temple as an example. “You shouldn’t underestimate the power of the human brain. It could fabricate and create great scenes all in the form of dreams. When you see things you don’t understand—Downworld, for example—your brain makes up an excuse for what it saw so you could discard it easily.

“There are some humans though, humans who don’t need to be forcefully opened to Downworld. Some are born with the Eye, it’s what they call it. I was born with it. Sam was born with it. Adam wasn’t, he’s going to need to be trained to open his mind to all of these. My parents weren’t, either. You two—”

“You two were,” Mary answered them mildly, taking the reins from Dean, who had choked on his words and had fallen silent.

This was another shock. This time she couldn’t quite believe anything anymore.

“Your birth certificates were handed to the school, when you enrolled. All hospitals around the world has at least one Downworld staff member, and they were the ones who checked if the babies being born had the Eye or not. It’s rarer than you think it is, for humans to be born with it. The five of you—you girls, our children—are some of the known exceptions. The school informed us of your arrival, as people with their Eyes open.

“I would have wanted Dean to stay away from you, but Dean does things that even I couldn’t control. He befriended Clary, and then they befriended Simon, and they befriended you, Charlie.”

“What about Simon?” Charlie asked. She _had to know_. “Does he have this Eye? Is he like us?”

Mary hesitated. The silence was answer enough.

Dean was glaring frostily at his parents. “The reason you can’t see Downworld as you should have is because you two are untrained, and the glamour New York itself has is strong enough to blind you.” He turned his eyes to Charlie and Clary, and his gaze turned soft and gentle. “Why don’t I drive you guys home, huh? It’s almost midnight.”

Charlie frowned at him, but Clary was nodding. “Yeah,” she said, “yes, let’s go.”

 

*.*

 

Dean didn’t drive them straight home, as Charlie would have expected. He took a turn off Main Avenue and kept driving to the docks, but neither of the girls protested the change in route. He stopped under a streetlight and went outside, not talking at all, but both Charlie and Clary followed him outside without question.

They stood by the bay walk, Dean leaning against the rotten wood banisters, his hair being tousled by the salty air of the sea.

“I know where Simon is,” he finally began, not looking at them but staring at the distance. Clary and Charlie exchanged glances. “He doesn’t know who I am. What I am. But he’s safe, he’s okay. His mom’s missing and I haven’t talked to Luke yet.”

He paused, and Charlie knew what he wanted to know: if Luke had contacted them, if they knew what was happening. Both girls remained quiet, though, prompting Dean to continue speaking.

“He’s—something happened, in Pandemonium,” he continued haltingly. “He... might not be as human as we think he is.” He gulped. “My parents are hiding something. They know something, but they’re leaving town for some preparations for the signing of the Accords in a few months. Sam and Adam are going to South Dakota with our uncle Bobby, but I can take care of myself.

“I’m worried about Simon. His mom. You two—there are so many questions, so much confusion, but there aren’t any answers anywhere I could see. And then there’s this, this whatever that’s stirring up. It’s getting dangerous. I need you to promise me you’ll let me teach you how to take care of yourselves, please. Please.”

His pleading tone plucked something at Charlie. The worry, the confusion, the fear—everything culminated into Charlie reaching forward and wrapping her arms around Dean’s waist, pressing her face against his shoulder. She felt Clary sneak into Dean’s other side, and then Deans hands were on both of their heads and this was friendship.

 _Simon_.

“Simon’s alright, right?” Clary breathed, and they felt Dean nod against their heads. It was good enough for now. Charlie didn’t think she could bear any more revelations for the day. She was tired, and hot, and sweaty. She wanted to go home.

*.*

 

Another thing Ash had taught Charlie was how to research and how to hack computers that could not be accessed otherwise. She printed everything she could come across—FBI reports, medical and coroner prints, antique news clippings, mythologies. It was when she stumbled upon the book series that the game changed, though, because she recognized the characters in the book.

It was called _Supernatural_ , by Carver Edlund. It was a small time cult series with a _very_ dedicated following, but that wasn’t what caught Charlie’s attention.

It’s the fact that the character names were Sam and Dean Winchester, and it was telling the story of a pair of brothers who went around the country hunting things and saving people. There was a secondary series, _Ascension_ , parallel to the first and it told the story of one Dean Winchester again, but this time he had three friends, not his brother. _Charlotte. Clarieta. Simoun._

Dread once more settled in the pit of her stomach.

She decided to start reading.

 

**..--..**

Dean took Sam to his first hunt, ever, that morning. The case had been sitting in the Network office for about two months, and the contents grew significantly since Dean had last seen it. He drove by after dropping the girls at home and stayed in his car all night, reviewing the reports and using what he knew as reference to try to determine what it was.

After checking the city archives at the Library before going back home at five in the morning, he was sure that it was a ghost. It had started almost two years ago, when the first victim disappeared—white, male, nineteen years old, freshman at the university. He had been driving home, according to the last call he had ever answered—his mother’s, twenty minutes before he disappeared, seemingly off the face of the earth.

Five months later, another young man disappeared—twenty six, black, worked at the local coffee shop. The last person to have seen him was his boss, right after the end of his shift. There were a total of about nine disappearances—all male, and if Dean was looking at the map of the town—two hours away from New York—right, they all passed by the same stretch of road to get where they needed to get to. He had asked for permission from Ellen to take on the case, who gave it to him tiredly and said there weren’t enough people trying to figure things out and they needed all the help they could get.

Dean agreed, and then left the Network building. His mother was awake when he got into the house, nursing a cup of coffee. She looked tired and worried. It was as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. It was painful to look at.

“Hey mom,” he said, putting the thick folder on the table beside her to kiss her cheek. He pulled away and gave her a small smile. “It seemed the girls took the news quite well.”

Mary chuckled, the sound brittle as she took another sip of her coffee. It was rich and thick, and it made Dean tingle from head to toe. He went to make himself a cup, sitting down beside his mother and tapping the folder with his fingers. “You got a hunt,” said Mary, observing the tan folder as if it was an animal.

“I wanted Sammy to come with me,” he began, not looking at his mother even when he saw her head snap towards his. “I just figured, he’s turning thirteen in two days. I’ll take him to a Hunt today, introduce him to Hunting. You know what dad used to say to me, when I was tired and sore and my fingers were wounded from knife training and gun assembly and disassembly? He said I had to keep going. Saving people, hunting things—family business.” He smiled, but it felt faint even to himself. He met his mother’s eyes. “I’m giving him the letters myself, after my graduation. I think he deserves that.”

Mary was biting her lip, flicking her gaze from Dean’s right eye to his left, as if she was searching for something in them. Her eyes were shining with an emotion Dean couldn’t—or refused to—name, but she nodded, hesitantly. “Give me the details,” she said, convicted. She must have found whatever she was looking for, because she reached up and patted Dean’s cheek. “Angels are watching over you.”

He gulped. “It’s two hours away, a small town called Jericho. It seems to be a normal salt and burn. Woman drowned her kids, killed herself—she kidnaps men who drive by her stretch of the bridge. We’ll be back before dinner, tops. I’ll try to get us back as soon as possible.”

Mary nodded. “Take care of your brother, okay?”

Dean smiled and agreed, but something in his mom’s face stopped him. “What is it?” he asked lowly. “Don’t worry about him, mom. I’ll take care of him.”

“I’m not that worried about Sam,” Mary said softly, reaching up to hold on to Dean’s face again. “I’m worried about you. We’re going out of town. We’re dropping Adam and Sam off at your Uncle Bobby’s. I don’t know how long it’ll be.”

Dean felt cold. He wasn’t that keen on making sure his family was there when he marched to grab his high school diploma, but he was worried about one thing: Sam’s letter. “When are you going?”

“Tonight, baby. Do you want to drive to Sioux Falls with us?”

 _That’s 23 hours away, mom,_ he wanted to say, _where are you going?_ But he just shook his head. “I’ll get Sam back before you leave, mom.”

“Dean—”

But Dean was pulling away. “I’m taking a bath, and then I’m waking Sam. Safe trip, mom. Love you.”

He turned around, not grabbing the file though he ought to. He went upstairs and stopped by his room, shedding the shirt he’d sweat on already, and grabbing a new one. He took a quick shower, going to Sam and Adam’s room and shaking the older one up.

“Sammy,” he said softly. Sam groaned. “Come on, gigantaur. I’m taking you somewhere.”

Sam was blinking up at him sleepily, sitting up to rub his eyes. “Where are we going?”

Dean smiled. “I’ll tell you on the way there. Come on, you gotta bath and eat up.”

“Is Adam coming?”

“No, Sammy. Come on, up you get. I’ve told mom. She’s in the kitchen. I’ll go check my stuff, and then I’ll see you in the car, okay?”

His little brother was immediately wide awake, looking at him with those eyes that were far too smart for his age. He looked calculating, before he nodded at Dean. “We’re going Hunting, aren’t we.”

Dean didn’t cringe, but he didn’t respond, either. He just stared at his brother with a poker face until he sighed and sat up, walking out of the room without looking back at Dean. Dean checked on Adam, kissing him on the forehead before going to his room, checking his chest. He made sure he had enough rock salt bullets before putting what he needed in a black satchel and hefting it, testing the weight.

Sam was brushing his teeth, already done with breakfast, when he got downstairs. Mary was in the living room, watching him. “Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?” she asked worriedly, but Dean shook his head.

“I’m eating when we get to Jericho. I just didn’t want Sam whining the whole way there.”

Mary sighed and nodded, and then surged forward to hug him. She kissed his cheek, ruffled Sam’s hair, and then disappeared down the hallway. Dean stared after her for a while, before turning back to his brother, who was staring at the bag in his hands. “Ready?”

He nodded, still staring at the heavy bag. He gulped nervously. “Am I—”

Dean smiled and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, enjoying the fact that he was taller just for a bit longer. “No,” he said gently, pulling his brother out to the car. “You’re not.”

Sam seemed to sag into Dean before straightening and sliding into the passenger’s seat. He watched as Dean threw the bag into the trunk and joined him in the front, starting the car and driving off. Honestly, Dean was relieved that Sam didn’t seem to keen to be into Hunting. Hunters tended to die younger than the Letters, though the latter had more intense and intensive training. Sam would probably enjoy their occupation, though: research? Archiving? Traveling?

“What are we going to do?” Sam asked, interrupting Dean’s thoughts and snapping him back to the present.

“We’re finding her grave,” he said, handing over to his brother the folder of all the files compiled about the Lady in White—what they had gotten around to calling her. “And then we’re cleansing her bones.”

Sam nodded and Dean heard the shuffling of paper fill up the silent space in the car, just like it did earlier, when he was alone, reading up on a case he was planning for his brother. He had hoped they could at least stay in New York for the hunt, but he lucked out; the only Hunts around were errant Downworlders, and though he wanted his brother to have the full experience, Sam didn’t know anything about self-defense or any fighting at all, really. He was going to get hurt.

Hopefully, this Hunt doesn’t turn out to be worse.

 

*.*

 

Jericho was a fucking sauna in the summer.

Dean and Sam arrived in town in the mid-morning, but even at this hour it was too hot. Even the interior of the diner they had chosen to have snacks in seemed to think so, too—the paint on the walls were peeling, the plastic blades of the overhead fans were sagging down, looking like wilted plants in the desert, pitifully spinning with their rotors moaning and grinding audibly.

Dean cringed when his palm accidentally touched the wall—it was sweating. Even the cement was sweating, it was disgusting, almost as disgusting as the feeling of sitting in an overheated booth. Sam and Dean were sweating before they could even settle in properly. There was an air conditioner screaming somewhere nearby, but it was obvious that turning it on would simply be a waste in effort and energy: this weather cannot possibly be fought. Dean just wanted to take his clothes off and dive into a tub of ice.

A waitress soon came to talk to them, her hair sticking to her neck and forehead where they came off the bun at the back of her head. She was wearing an apron around her waist, a notepad poised under a pen, her blue eyes tired and blinking sluggishly. Her blouse, which was pink, was sticking to his body. On any other circumstance, Dean would have flirted with her a bit, laughed at her claiming he was too young. As it is he had no energy to even lift his head.

“How do you survive this?” Sam whined after telling the waitress—Erica, her nametag claimed—his order. “It’s a fucking sauna here!”

“Language, Sammy,” Dean said groggily, lack of sleep and fatigue at the temperature getting to him. “Wake me up when the food’s here.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean didn’t care. He raised his arms to the table and let his head fall on them, almost immediately out like a light once he closed his eyes. If it wasn’t for the intense heat and exhaustion, Dean would have felt more careful and checked if there was magic involved in him suddenly losing consciousness in a sleazy, lazy diner in the middle of nowhere.

He jumped when he was shaken, what felt like mere seconds later, but Erica was back with their food, holding it in a sad looking tray and carefully setting each smoking plate down on their table. She also left them a pitcher of blessedly iced water, two cups, and two lemons. Dean almost immediately lunged for the pitcher, just barely resisting the temptation to chug it right off and simply poured water into a cup, added a squeeze of lemon, and drank.

“Oh god,” he gasped, grateful for the refreshment of his parched throat. “Remind me to never come back here in summer.”

“Do you think it gets worse in winter?” Sam asked, already digging into his plate—burger and fries, with lettuce and tomato, the nerd—blowing on it while looking at Dean. “I mean, this is a little extreme this far north, isn’t it?”

“Finish your food and let’s just finish this thing,” Dean instructed, taking a bite of his own burger. He’s gotta say, though, for a place that was so hot even the plastic was beginning to melt, they served a mean burger. The patties were juicy, and tasty, and though hot as Hell it was worth it.

 

**..--..**

 

They went right to work the moment they finished eating. Dean drove them to the local graveyard, grateful that it was way out of the main highway and therefore difficult to track—grave desecration was a major crime in many places, and Dean was sure this was one of them.

They found her grave. She was buried alongside the two children she drowned, and Dean wondered if they’d have to worry about the kids, too. Were they happy their final resting place was beside the woman who murdered them?

 _Probably not_ , he thought, but there hasn’t been any reports of children attacking anyone out of nowhere just yet, so maybe they _don’t_ have to worry about it yet. He carried the shovels and the cans of gasoline while Sam held on to the bags of salt and their box of matches, marching obediently after Dean as they walked through rows upon rows of headstones.

Dean was sweating through his shirt when he finally dropped the shovels beside the woman’s headstone, looking at Sam and nodding.

And so they dug.

 

*.*

 

They finished digging around eleven, if Dean was looking at the position of the sun correctly. He was dizzy and dirty, but he managed to push Sam out of the grave before he broke the wood of the coffin cover, coughing at the smell of decay that wafted up to his face. He pulled himself out of the hole next, crawling so he was beside Sam, and then handed him one of the bags of salt.

Silently they salted the skeleton of the woman, and then poured gasoline over the salt, and then Dean was throwing a match into it.

He wished he had the forethought of putting some distance between himself and the grave because _fuck_ that was hot. He tried to crawl, but he was too tired, too hot, too dizzy. He groaned when Sam put a bottle on his lips, thankfully, greedily drinking the whole thing until he felt better.

They let the grave burn for an hour before covering it again, going back to the diner, and having lunch. Sam had wanted to go home already, and Dean did, too—he felt sore and hot and dirty—but he didn’t feel like his job here was done. It didn’t feel like it did on any other Hunt he had gone to, and he wondered if that was because this was Sam’s first Hunt as well.

The thing about Hunters was, their instincts were usually correct.

They drove to an old house—the house where the woman used to live, before she killed her kids and committed suicide. Well, at least they attempted to, because Dean wasn’t looking at the map, _Sam_ was, and Sam didn’t know that the bridge he just told his brother to turn to was the same exact bridge the Lady in White took all her victims from.

Nothing was amiss the whole way, until Dean’s car’s wheels hit the dirt and was suddenly out of control. He was surprised, looking at the rearview mirror to see if there were any cars behind him and—

Fuck his life.

“Sam!” he yelled, looking at his brother, who was staring at the Lady over his shoulder. His knuckles were white around an—

Iron stick.

“Sam! Swing that stick at her! _Swing that stick at her_!”

And Sam did. With all his might, he swung, almost nicking Dean in the face, hitting the Lady who screeched before disappearing. “WHAT THE HELL!” Sam yelled, looking at Dean, eyes wide and wild. He was grinning. “THAT WAS AWESOME!”

 _Kids,_ Dean thought grimly. The car was blessedly back under control again, and he continued the drive all the way to the house.

His problem? The Lady reappeared and he once again lost control over the car, but this time he had quite an idea what he had to do. He yelled at Sam to hold on, and floored the accelerator—the engine roared, the car shot forward, and the Lady screamed. It was a high-pitch, deafening, _Christ please shut the fuck up_ scream. Dean was going too fast, the house was looming over them, but he had to keep going, had to—

They crashed against the wall of the house, the impact causing Dean to shoot forward and hit his head, violently, on the steering wheel. The woman had shut up now, and he turned his neck to his brother. Sam was blinking at him, hanging limply against his seatbelt, gulping nervously before turning his head forward, looking into the house.

The scene that greeted them was strange.

The house looked like any old house you might see. There was a brown shade to everything around that gave Dean the impression that this place had been untouched since the last person to live here left—namely, the woman and her kids. All three of them were there, standing, staring at each other. There was one girl, cute, her hair dark and held in braids, falling on her shoulders. There was a boy, his hair in disarray, holding his sister’s hand, staring up at their mom. They were both dripping wet.

The Lady seemed frozen, watching her children, and then—

She screamed as they surged forward and hugged her. Dean and Sam exchanged looks, watching, for the first time, a spirit finally moving on. Three seconds later, the house was empty, aside for a car that was half-way through a wall, and two teenagers staring at each other in wonder.

**..--..**


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyy i'm not completely back yet but hey, here's 8k + words of this au uwu enjoy lovelies!!

"Do you think he'll ever wake up? It's been three days already."

"You have to give him time. He's a mundane who had gotten poisoned by a demon. That he hasn't got runes to keep him strong like we do doesn’t help his case."

"Mundies die awfully easily, don't they?"

"Isabelle, you know it's bad luck to talk about death in a sickroom."

 _Three days_ , Simon thought, a little bit of what felt like panic flickering somewhere in his mind. All his _thought – feelings – emotions – body_ ran as thickly and slowly as honey. Or blood. _I have to wake up_.

But he couldn't.

 

*.*

 

The dreams held him, one after the other, a river of images that bore him, dragged him, held him, took him along like a leaf tossed in a current. He saw his mother lying in a hospital bed, dark circles like bruises under her eyes in her white face. He saw Luke, standing atop a pile of bones. Jace with white feathered wings sprouting out of his back, Isabelle sitting naked with her whip curled around her like a net of gold rings, Clary with crosses burned into the palms of her hands. Dean crying, holding onto a dying, dead body and calling out in anguish. Charlie standing like an empress in front of her many subjects. Alec, holding a sword before him with a grim expression on his face. Angels, falling and burning. Falling out of the sky like a light show, or a meteor shower.

 

*.*

 

Simon's eyelids felt as if someone—some genius—had sewed his eyelids shut. They felt heavy and burdened, very much unwilling to separate from being glued together. It wasn't a pretty mental image. He imagined he could feel tearing skin as he peeled them slowly open and blinked for the first time in three days. At least, he _hoped_ he imagined the feeling of skin peeling off.

He shuddered, but his body was unwilling to move in any way. He was sore everywhere.

He saw a wide open _blueness_ above him, littered with random white puffs and chubby little globs of flesh colored _something_ with tails. _Am I dead?_ he wondered. _Could heaven actually look like this? These angels look ridiculous. Why do they have tails?_

He blinked, and realized he was looking at the images above him wrong. He forced his body into a sitting position, hand passing over everything around himself in search of his glasses. He found them on his bed’s bedside table. There was a white pitcher and a cup on it.

Lace curtains were pulled across the windows, blocking the light, but he could still hear the faint, ever-present New York sounds of traffic coming from outside. The interior of where he was laying—an infirmary, probably—was still bright enough to see by, even with most of the light blocked out. He was infinitely thankful he didn’t open his eyes to direct sunlight.

"So, you're finally awake," said a dry voice. "Hodge will be pleased. We all thought you'd probably die in your sleep."

Simon started, and turned. Isabelle was perched on the next bed, her long jet-black hair wound into two thick braids that fell past her waist. Her white dress had been replaced by jeans and a tight blue tank top, though the red pendant still winked at her throat. It didn't look as if it was pulsing this time though, it just looked like a regular, graceful, delicate pendant. Her dark spiraling tattoos were gone; her skin was as unblemished as the surface of a bowl of cream.

On Simon's next blink, he saw the trailing silvery evidence of scar tissue.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Simon croaked. He felt as if he was talking through sandpaper. "Is this the Institute?"

Isabelle rolled her eyes. "Is there anything Jace didn't tell you?"

He didn’t deign to answer her question for a crippling, _stabbing_ pain caused him to clutch at his stomach. He gasped at the feeling.

Isabelle looked alarmed. “Are you okay?”

“My stomach.” The pain in his stomach was already fading, but he could still remember the sensation, the faint taste of acid in the back of his throat, the way his mouth was desperately trying to pool saliva.

He was starving.

"Oh, right. I almost forgot. Hodge said to give you this when you woke up." Isabelle stood, and then grabbed for the ceramic pitcher and poured some of the contents into the matching cup, which she handed to Simon. It was full of a cloudy liquid that steamed slightly. It smelled like herbs and something else, something rich and dark. "You haven't eaten anything in three days," Isabelle pointed out. "That's probably why you feel sick."

Simon nodded in agreement and gingerly took a sip. It was delicious, rich and filling and warm and satisfying with a buttery aftertaste, like tea, or soup. "What is this?"

Isabelle shrugged. "One of Hodge's tisanes. They always work." She slid off the bed, landing on the floor with a catlike arch of her back. "I'm Isabelle Lightwood, by the way. I live here."

Simon finished off his cup, feeling warmth pool at the bottom of his stomach, making him feel content and sleepy.

 _You've slept long enough_ , he scolded himself. "I'm Simon. Simon Fray, at your service, what can I do for you today?"

“I know who you are, mundie.” She scrunched her nose. It was adorable. “Shower, for one.”

Simon laughed, putting his cup back on the bedside table. He noticed his clothes, and then, confused, asked, “Did Jace bring me here?”

Isabelle nodded. "Hodge was furious. You got ichor and blood all over the carpet in the entryway. If he'd done it while my parents were here, he'd have gotten grounded for sure." She looked at Simon more narrowly. "Jace said you killed that Ravener demon all by yourself."

A quick image of the thing that was in his house when he arrived yesterday flashed through his mind—its black back, its slithering noises, its _words_ —and Simon shuddered. "No," he said lowly, "I didn't even know what I was doing."

Isabelle was quiet. "But you killed it, right? Right?"

Simon frowned at her, and then nodded in acquiescence. He wasn't sure what answer exactly she was looking for, but that seemed to be it. Or something. Shadowhunters were weird.

There was silence, and then, “I’ll go tell everyone you’re up. Hodge will want to talk to you.”

“Hodge is Jace’s tutor, right?” he asked, looking up at her.

“Hodge tutors us all,” she said, and then raised a hand to point. “The bathroom's through there, and Alec volunteered some of his old clothes. I put them on the towel rack in case you want to change."

Simon frowned. "You mean volunteer in what sense?"

"In the sense that matters." _Yeah, because I’m pretty sure Alec would_ love _to volunteer clothes for me_.

"Where are mine?"

"They were covered in ichor and demon poison. Jace burned them."

 _Did he?_ thought Simon. "Is he always that rude? Or am I just special? Besides, that was one of my best shirts!"

"It was ruined anyway," Isabelle said airily, waving her hand at Simon. "And he's rude to everyone. It's what makes him so damn sexy. That, and he's killed more demons than anyone else his age."

The way she glanced at him clearly answered his only unmentioned statement.

Before Simon could say anything else, Isabelle got to her feet. "I’m going to let everyone know you've woken up. They've been waiting for you to open your eyes for three days. Go shower. You smell."

Simon rolled his eyes, but he agreed—he felt _disgusting_. It was unfairly, inexplicably cool inside the Institute—in this part, at least, but he could still feel the dirt and soot on his skin whenever he moved. He got out of bed, but decided to have one more cup of the tisane before going to the bathroom.

 

*.*

 

Alec’s _volunteered_ clothes looked ridiculous. Simon was usually proud of his height, but he looked like a toddler wearing daddy’s clothes when he put on Alec’s. The underwear, at least, didn’t look ‘volunteered’—it was still in its package, and he was glad Shadowhunters got _that_ right. He still had to fold Alec’s pants twice to see his feet, though, but the shirt was comfortable enough. It was just as ratty as his own shirts, except the neckline was stretched too far.

It insisted on falling off to one side, no matter how many times Simon pulled on it.

He had cleaned up—correction, _scrubbed up_ , at the thought of _blood – ichor – poison_ —in the bathroom, using one of the many bars of soap and bottles of fragrant shampoo provided by Shadowhunters. Some of these scents he has never gotten the pleasure of sniffing in the past—it was seriously highly tempting to stay in the bathroom to bath _forever_.

But when he looked at himself in the mirror—seeing the sunken look in his eyes after three days of fasting, the bruise on his neck and his forehead, he realized he couldn’t. _I’ll have to call Luke,_ he thought. _I was gone for three days. And Clary. And Charlie. And_ —

Remembering Dean came with remembering that his mom was missing, and he had to take a shuddering breath to regain his composure. _I will not break down in a comfort room_ , he thought to himself fiercely. _Absolutely not_.

He found his shoes under the bed he had woken up in, his keys tied to the shoelaces. He slid his feet inside, taking the keys off and sliding them into his pockets before tightening the laces around his feet. It gave him some sort of comfort, that he was still whole, that they had sheltered him, _clothed him_ , helped him get better.

The corridor outside the infirmary was empty, when he went out there in search of Isabelle or Hodge the Tutor. Glass lamps blown into the shapes of roses hung at intervals on the walls, and the air smelled like dust and candle wax. It felt _antique_ , for some reason, reminding Simon of one of the haunted houses he’d gone to on a Halloween night—the way the house itself smelled _old_ , but not in the _cabbage and cat piss_ kind of way, but in the… _aged and cured_ kind of way.

It was hard—impossible—to explain, even to himself in a way that made any sense at all.

He walked around aimlessly for a while, going one way down the hallway and then turning around to peek into the infirmary again, before going on to walk down the other way. On his fourth or fifth pivot, he stopped, frustrated, running his hands through his hair. This place was _huge_ , too huge, he could turn one corner he could get lost. When he was simply standing there, ruminating, did he realize he could hear something—it was faint, but he went to follow it like a blind man towards the only source of sound. In this situation, it was appropriate.

He walked down the hallway, remembering a piece of advice he had read somewhere that _when you’re stuck in a cage, put a hand on one wall and follow that_. The wallpaper underneath his fingertips felt cool and _antique_ , faded and rough but still wonderfully preserved, even from the corner of his eyes. Closed doors lined either side of the corridor.

As he drew closer, he realized that what he was hearing a piano being played, rather lousily, but by someone with obvious skill. The tune was familiar to Simon, but he couldn’t quite place the name. He rounded a corner, coming to a doorway, propped fully open. Peering in he saw what was clearly a music room. A grand piano stood in one corner, and rows of chairs were arranged against the far wall. A covered harp occupied the center of the room. Other instruments were propped against the side of the wall he could see from the door.

Jace was seated at the grand piano, his slender hands moving rapidly, delicately, surely over the keys. He was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a gray t-shirt, ruffled up around his head as if he'd just woken up. Or someone ran their fingers through his locks, Simon observed quietly, remembering Isabelle's words.

_It's what makes him so damn sexy._

He watched silently as Jace continued moving, his hands fluttering over the keys the way he's seen Jocelyn, and Charlie and Mary Winchester when he had the chance, do at the piano in their little apartment. It was graceful, he thought, how pianists seemed to dance with the music they produce, even though sometimes they were just in the sidelines, just a secondary accompaniment to something bigger.

Not that Jace was anything like that, of course. Jace was the star of the show, the center of attention, even in times like these, when he's alone.

Simon must have made some noise, because Jace twisted around on the stool, blinking into the shadows. "Alec?" he said. "Is that you?"

"It's not Alec. It's me." He stepped farther into the room, his eyes taking in the large cavern of a music room. "Simon." Charlie and Erik would have been proud of this room, discussing where one instrument could be played and where the other shouldn't.

Simon frowned. He had forgotten about the band. Had they been practicing at all these past few days?

Piano keys jangled as Jace got to his feet, startling Simon and bringing him back to the present. "Our own Sleeping Beauty. Who finally kissed you awake?"

Simon blinked at him. "Nobody. I woke up on my own."

Jace blinked back at him. They probably looked like idiots, staring and blinking at each other for no given reason other than… well, blinking at each other. "Was there anyone with you?"

"Isabelle, but she went off to get someone—the mysterious Hodge the tutor, probably. She told me to wait, but—"

"I should have warned her about your habit of never doing what you're told." Jace squinted at him. Without looking Simon knew he was judging Alec's clothes on his frame, and knowing how ridiculous it looked on him, he rolled his eyes preemptively. Jace snorted.

He watched as Jace slid the gleaming cover of the piano closed.

He hesitated, remembering Jace _was rude, that everyone found it sexy that he was rude,_ but if he didn't get this out, he probably never would. "Thanks," he blurted. "Now can you bring me to Hodge?"

Jace blinked at him lazily, and Simon began mentally preparing himself for a humiliation, but Jace simply touched his elbow and passed him to the door. "Come on then." Simon let out a breathe of relief, and followed Jace out.

The Institute was huge, he had already established that earlier, but now that he was seeing it while with someone who knew the place, he began making his own mental picture of it. It was a vast cavernous space that looked less like it had been designed according to a floor plan and more like it had been naturally hollowed out of rock by the passage of water and years. Whoever had designed the place worked with the natural curves of the stone walls. The effect was beautiful and breathtaking, even though Simon has never had the aptitude for drawing or architecture. He could see someone, though, graduating high school, going to college for architecture, and then coming to see the Institute—its wooden beams and stone walls, the sloping smooth floor, the high arches overhead.

Through half-open doors Simon glimpsed countless identical small rooms, each with a stripped bed, a nightstand, and a large wooden wardrobe standing open. Pale arches of stone held up the high ceilings, many of the arches intricately carved with small figures. He noticed certain repeating motifs: angels and swords, suns and roses.

"Why does this place have so many bedrooms?" Simon asked, perplexed. "I thought it was a research institute." They had gone to see a real research institute two years ago as a school trip, and though the place was humungous, it didn't have as many bedrooms as this particular one.

"This is the residential wing. We're pledged to offer safety and lodging to any Shadowhunter who requests it. We can house up to two hundred people here." He frowned at Simon. "This is not a 'research institute'."

"But most of these rooms are empty." He deigned to ignore the last statement. He wasn't actually serious in thinking it was anyway.

"People come and go. Nobody stays for long. Usually it's just us—Alec, Isabelle, Max, their parents—and me and Hodge."

"Max?"

"You met the beauteous Isabelle? Alec is her elder brother. Max is the youngest, but he's overseas with his parents."

"On vacation?"

"Not exactly." Jace hesitated. "You can think of them foreign diplomats, and of this as an embassy, of sorts. Right now they're in the Shadowhunter home country, working out some very delicate peace negotiations. They brought Max with them because he's so young."

"Shadowhunter home country," Simon said flatly. Though he wanted to be incredulous, to question the sanity of Jace as he talked, he couldn't quite bring himself to. This, though? Shadowhunter home country. "What's it called?"

"Idris."

"I've never heard of it."

"You wouldn't have." That irritating superiority was back in Jace's voice. It made Simon want to punch someone. _So bad_. "Mundanes don't know about it. There are wardings— protective spells—up all over the borders. If you tried to cross into Idris, you'd simply find yourself transported instantly from one border to the next. You'd never know what happened."

 _I know what wards are, idiot,_ he wanted to tell Jace, _I've read the whole Inheritance Cycle. Judge me._ Except Jace probably would, so he simply said, "so that's why I have never seen a map proclaiming, ' _Idris: Shadowhunter Home Country_ '."

"Not mundie ones." Simon could hear the eye roll in Jace's voice, in his very statement. "For our purposes you can consider it a small country between Germany and France."

"But there isn't anything between Germany and France! Except Switzerland. Love Switzerland."

"Precisely," said Jace.

"I take it you've been there. To Idris, I mean."

"I grew up there." Jace's voice was neutral, too even, but something in his tone let Simon know that more questions in that direction would not be welcome. "Most of us do. There are, of course, Shadowhunters all over the world. We have to be everywhere, because demonic activity is everywhere. But to a Shadowhunter, Idris is always 'home.'"

Simon nodded thoughtfully. "So most of you are brought up there, and then when you grow up—"

"We're sent where we're needed," said Jace shortly. "And there are a few, like Isabelle and Alec, who grow up away from the home country because that's where their parents are. With all the resources of the Institute here, with Hodge's training—" He broke off. "This is the library."

They had reached an arch-shaped set of wooden doors. A blue Persian cat with yellow eyes lay curled in front of them. Blue. The cat was blue, it wasn't black. It raised its head as they approached and yowled. "Hey, Church," Jace said, stroking the cat's back with a bare foot. The cat slit its eyes in pleasure.

"Wait," said Simon, only now realizing something. "Alec and Isabelle and Max—they're the only Shadowhunters your age that you know, that you spend time with?"

Jace stopped stroking the cat. "Yes."

"That must get kind of lonely."

"I have everything I need." He pushed the doors open. After a moment's hesitation he followed him inside.

The library was circular, with a ceiling that tapered to a point, as if it had been built inside a tower. The walls were lined with books, the shelves so high that tall ladders set on casters were placed along them at intervals. He was reminded of the Central Library, but the Institute's seemed more... classy, to him. These were no ordinary books either—these were books bound in leather and velvet, clasped with sturdy-looking locks and hinges made of brass and silver. Their spines were studded with dully glowing jewels and illuminated with gold script. They looked worn in a way that made it clear that these books were not just old but were well-used, and had been well loved through the years.

The floor was polished wood, inlaid with chips of glass and marble and bits of semiprecious stone. The inlay formed a pattern that Simon couldn't quite decipher.

In the center of the room sat a magnificent desk. It was carved from a single slab of wood, a great, heavy piece of oak that gleamed with the dull shine of years. The slab rested upon the backs of two angels, carved from the same wood, their wings gilded and their faces engraved with a look of suffering, as if the weight of the slab were breaking their backs. Behind the desk sat a thin man with gray-streaked hair and a long beaky noise.

"A book lover, I see," he said, smiling at Simon. "You didn't tell me that, Jace."

"My mom taught me to love books," Simon announced, hating to have people talk about him like he weren't there. _She also taught me how not to talk to strangers or follow them around, but that's been shot to Hell_. He frowned at Hodge. "How can you tell, though? That I love books, that is."

"The look on your face when you walked in," he said, standing up and coming around from behind the desk. "Somehow I doubted you were that impressed by me."

Simon grinned. This old man, at least, had modesty. He openly stared at the mysterious Hodge finally rose. For a moment it seemed that he was strangely misshapen, his left shoulder humped and higher than the other. As he approached, he saw that the hunch was actually a bird, perched neatly on his shoulder—a glossy feathered creature with bright black eyes.

"This is Hugo," the man said, touching the bird on his shoulder. "Hugo is a raven, and, as such, he knows many things. I, meanwhile, am Hodge Starkweather, a professor of history, and, as such, I do not know nearly enough."

Simon smiled and shook his outstretched hand. "Simon Fray."

"Honored to make your acquaintance," he said. "I would be honored to make the acquaintance of anyone who could kill a Ravener with her bare hands."

"It wasn't my bare hands." It still felt odd to be congratulated for killing something. It was something that was going to kill you. Something that might have hurt your mom. Shouldn't you be congratulated for that? "It was Jace's—well, I don't remember what it was called, but—"

"My Sensor," said Jace helpfully. "He shoved it down the thing's throat. The runes must have choked it. I guess I'll need another one," he added, almost as an afterthought. "I should have mentioned that."

"There are several extra in the weapons room," said Hodge. When he smiled at Simon, a thousand small lines rayed out from around his eyes, like the cracks in an old painting. "That was quick thinking. What gave you the idea of using the Sensor as a weapon?"

Before he could reply, a sharp laugh sounded through the room. Alec sprawled in an overstuffed red armchair by the empty fireplace, completely ignored by the three of them until that very moment. "I can't believe you buy that story, Hodge," he said.

At first Simon didn't even register his words. He was too busy staring at him. He had always been fascinated by the resemblance between siblings—Clary and Rebecca, Dean, Sam and Adam—and now, in the full light of day, he could see exactly how much Alec and his sister looked alike.

He could remember wondering at the unfairness of the fact that Dean and his family were given blessings of so much beauty. He felt the same marvelling as he continued to stare at Alec.

They had the same jet-black hair, the same slender eyebrows winging up at the corners, the same pale, high-colored skin. But where Isabelle was all arrogance and confidence, Alec slumped down in the chair as if he hoped nobody would notice him, that they would go back to ignoring him before he had spoken aloud. His lashes were long and dark like Isabelle's, but where her eyes were black, bold and chrome, his were the dark blue of bottle glass. They gazed at Simon with a hostility as pure and concentrated as acid.

"I'm not quite sure what you mean, Alec." Hodge raised an eyebrow. Simon stared, wondering if it was polite to ask a man's age. He had learned that it wasn't when it was a woman, but what if it was Hodge?

He wore a neat gray tweed suit, perfectly pressed. He would have looked like a kindly college professor if it hadn't been for the thick scar that drew up the right side of his face. He began to wonder how he got it, but the image of the silvery scar tissue on the other Shadowhunters' skin stopped him from thinking. They were demon killers. He could have gotten it from a... what do they call it? Mission?

"Are you suggesting that he didn't kill that demon after all?"

"Of course he didn't. Look at him—he's a mundie, Hodge, and a little kid, at that. There's no way he took on a Ravener. No way he could have."

"I'm not a little kid," Simon interrupted. "Nor am I little boy," he directed with a glare to Jace who still stood behind him. "I'm  seventeen, thanks." He didn't mention that he was turning seventeen in—how long? Four days?

"The same age as Isabelle," Hodge said. "Would you call him a child?"

"Isabelle hails from one of the greatest Shadowhunter dynasties in history," Alec said dryly. "This boy, on the other hand, hails from New Jersey."

"I'm from Brooklyn!" Simon was outraged. Seriously, this holier than thou act was getting in his nerves. This was it. He was done. Or he was going to be. "And so what? I just killed a demon in my own house, my mom's missing, gone, I don't know what happened—she—I've been gone for three days! I'm sorry if I am not quite passable in your eyes, oh highness!"

The Shadowhunters seemed to have reached the peak of their courtesy. Well, so has Simon. He wasn't letting these people walk on him like this—he was raised better. Clary and Dean and Charlie did not teach him how to fight bullies off for nothing.

Alec looked stricken. It was the first expression on his pretty face that didn't make Simon feel like the plague, and it made some of the building anger in him subside. What was he doing? He wasn't an angry person, he was the one who balanced out Clary's spaz and Charlie's genius and Dean's temper. He wasn't like this.

"He has a point, Alec," said Jace gently, mildly. "It's those bridge-and-tunnel demons you really have to watch out for—"

"It's not funny, Jace," Alec interrupted, starting to his feet. He was still looking at Simon, though he couldn't quite gather the anger—couldn't get himself to.

"It's my word, Alec," Jace argued. "I was there. I watched him do it."

Alec's mouth tightened. "It isn't right for him to be here. Mundies aren't allowed in the Institute, and there are good reasons for that. If anyone knew about this, we could be reported to the Clave."

"That's not entirely true," Hodge interjected mildly. "The Law does allow us to offer sanctuary to mundanes in certain circumstances. A Ravener has already attacked Simon's home. These are such circumstances."

Attacked. Simon wondered if they've found his mother. She must be worried about him, right?She must totally be freaking out over her son. And he got himself attacked by a demon. The raven on Hodge's shoulder cawed softly.

_Attacked._

"Raveners are search-and-destroy machines," Alec said. "They act under orders from warlocks or powerful demon lords. Now, what interest would a warlock or demon lord have in an ordinary mundane household?" His eyes when he looked at Simon were bright with dislike and suspicion. "Any thoughts?"

"Oh yeah," said Simon, "my mom and I praise Lucifer at night, and we make virginal sacrifice every full moon. Have you ever wondered about the missing virgins? Their blood is given to the dearest Satan, bodies buried to be fed to the deepest depths of hell. My friends help me a lot, they befriend the virgins. They think they'll get to sleep with Dean."

Hodge chuckled, but Alec and—when he turned to look—Jace were looking scandalized and horrified. "What virgins?" Jace questioned.

Simon sighed. "It must have been a mistake."

"Demons don't make those kind of mistakes," Alec interrupted, apparently having recovered from finding out Simon did monthly sacrifices. "If they went after your mother, there must have been a reason. If she were innocent—"

"What do you mean, 'innocent'?" Simon asked. "Of course she is! And don't talk to her in the past tense, she's alive. She's alive until you prove to me otherwise." _And I hope and pray you don't. Please, please don't prove that she's dead. I don't want her to be dead._

Alec looked taken aback. "I—"

"What he means," said Hodge, saving the day, "is that it is extremely unusual for a powerful demon, the kind who might command a host of lesser demons, to interest himself in the affairs of human beings. No mundane may summon a demon—they lack that power—but there have been some, desperate and foolish, who have found a witch or warlock to do it for them."

"My mother doesn't know any warlocks. She doesn't even believe in magic." A thought occurred to Simon. "Madame Dorothea— she lives downstairs—she's a witch. Maybe the demons were after her and got my mom by mistake?"

Holy shit, what about _Chuck_?

Hodge's eyebrows shot up into his hair. "A witch lives downstairs from you?"

"She's a fake," Jace said. "I already looked into it. There's no reason for any warlock to be interested in her unless he's in the market for nonfunctional crystal balls."

"And we're back where we began." Hodge reached up to stroke the bird on his shoulder. "It seems the time has come to notify the Clave."

"No!" Jace said. "We can't—"

"It made sense to keep Simon's presence here a secret while we were not sure he would recover," Hodge said. "But now he has, and he is the first mundane to pass through the doors of the Institute in over a hundred years. You know the rules about mundane knowledge of Shadowhunters, Jace. The Clave must be informed."

"Absolutely," Alec agreed. "I could get a message to my father—"

"He isn't a mundane," Jace said quietly.

Everyone stopped dead in their tracks for a second. Even Simon felt frozen. "Are you pulling off a paradox on me?" Simon asked him.

Hodge's eyebrows shot back up to his hairline and stayed there. Alec, caught in the middle of a sentence, choked with surprise.

"Because as far as I've been informed, we have quite established, in this whole conversation and the many before this—two, I might add—that I am, indeed, a mundane who is just a mundane who could see you. I'm a conundrum." He kinda liked being a conundrum.

"No," said Jace. "You aren't." He turned to Hodge, and Simon saw the slight movement of his throat as he swallowed. He found this glimpse of his nervousness oddly reassuring. At least that proved he was human, right?

"That night Simon was bleeding too much. He burned his arm, and a Ravener needle was stuck on his neck. I had to draw a healing rune on the inside of his arm with my stele. I thought—"

"Are you out of your mind?" Hodge slammed his hand down on top of the desk so hard that Simon thought the wood might crack. Inanely the only thing he could think of was, that would be a waste of beautiful furniture. "You know what the Law says about placing Marks on mundanes! You—you of all people ought to know better!"

"But it worked," said Jace. "Simon, show them your arm."

With a baffled glance in Jace's direction, he held out his bare arm. He could now see three faint overlapping circles, the lines as faint as the memory of a scar that had faded with the passage of years. "See, it's almost gone," Jace said. "It didn't hurt him at all." Jace's eyes flew to Simon's throat and, when Simon's hand flew to it—

There was the tell-tale bump of scars as well. How come he had not seen them in the mirror earlier?

"That's not the point." Hodge could barely control his anger. "You could have turned him into a Forsaken."

Two bright spots of color burned high up on Alec's cheekbones. "I can't believe you, Jace. Only Shadowhunters can receive Covenant Marks—they kill mundanes—"

"He's not a mundane. Haven't you been listening? It explains why he could see us. He must have Clave blood."

Simon suddenly felt cold, but not the kind of cold brought about by air conditioners on summer nights. "But I don't. I couldn't."

"You must," Jace said, without looking at him. "If you didn't, that Mark I made on your arm…" he hesitated, as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't.

"That's enough, Jace," said Hodge, the displeasure clear in his voice.

"But I was right, wasn't I?" Jace insisted. "It explains what happened to his mother, too. If she was a Shadowhunter in exile, she might well have Downworld enemies."

"My mother wasn't a Shadowhunter!"

"Your father, then," Jace said. "What about him?"

"He's _dead_."

Jace flinched, almost imperceptibly. It was Alec who spoke. "It's possible," he said uncertainly. "If his father were a Shadowhunter, and his mother a mundane—well, we all know it's against the Law to marry a mundie. Maybe they were in hiding."

He wanted to say that Jocelyn would have told him, but the fact was he didn't know if she would have. He could remember how there was only one picture of dad, how Simon didn't even  have grandparents or cousins or aunts or uncles. Was that possible? Simon didn't think so. Jocelyn had said Dad's relatives didn't like her, but they would at least have tried to contact him, right?

He remained quiet.

"We all have secrets," said Jace quietly.

"Luke," Simon said with a sudden moment of clarity. "He's the longest friend my mom has. He would know." _The only friend of mom's I know,_ he didn't say. With the thought of Luke came a flash of guilt and horror. "It's been three days—he must be frantic. Can I call him? Is there a phone?" He turned to Jace. "Please."

Jace hesitated, looking at Hodge, who nodded and moved aside from the desk. Behind him was a globe, made of beaten brass, that didn't look quite like other globes Simon had seen; there was something subtly strange about the shape of the countries and continents. Next to the globe was an old-fashioned black telephone with a silver rotary dial.

Simon almost ran to the phone, lifting it to his ear, listening to the familiar dial tone. In seventeen years he has only ever memorized five phone numbers, and one of them he couldn't contact even if he wanted to, oh so wanted to. He decided to call Luke first.

Luke picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Luke!" Simon sagged in relief against the desk. It felt unbelievably good, listening to the voice of someone familiar after so many things that just... weren't. "It's Simon."

"Simon." He could hear the relief in his voice, along with something else he couldn't quite identify. It gave him no good feelings about the situation though. "You're all right?"

"I'm fine," hee said. "I'm sorry I didn't call you before. Luke, my mom—"

"I know. The police were here."

The police. "Then you haven't heard from her. What did the police say?"

"Just that she was missing." Luke's tone really wasn't helping Simon's nerves any. "Where are you?"

"I'm in the city," Simon said vaguely. "I don't know where exactly. With some friends. My wallet's gone, though. If you've got some cash, I could take a cab to your place—"

"No," he said shortly, harshly.

The phone slipped in his sweaty hand. He caught it. "What?" That two letter word felt like a slap in his face. It hurt just as bad.

"No," he said. "It's too dangerous. You can't come here."

"We could call—"

"Look." His voice was hard. "Whatever your mother's gotten herself mixed up in, it's nothing to do with me. You're better off where you are."

"But I don't want to stay here. You—"

"I'm not your father, Simon. I've told you that before." He sounded gentle, but it wasn't the voice of Luke he knew when he was younger. This time Luke sounded like he was trying to keep a rabid animal from flipping out.

Tears burned the backs of his eyes. "I'm sorry. It's just—" _Why are you apologizing? Why are you apologizing?_

"Don't call me for favors again," he said. "I've got my own problems, I don't need to be bothered with yours," he added, and hung up the phone.

He was trembling when he set the phone back down on the reciever. He picked it up again, thinking of calling Luke, but the way he said 'no' made him stop. He dialed another number.

He closed his eyes and listened, his mother's voice washing over him, telling him she couldn't get to her phone and that he should leave a message after the beep. He slammed the receiver down when he did.

Jace was leaning against the armrest of Alec's chair, watching him. "It wasn't as happy as you were expecting, I assume?"

"You have assumed correctly." Even Simon cringed at the flatness of his own tone.I will not cry. Not in front of these people.

"I think I'd like to have a talk with Simon," said Hodge. "Alone," he added firmly, seeing Jace's expression.

Alec stood up eagerly. "Fine. We'll leave you to it."

"That's hardly fair," Jace objected. "I'm the one who found him.You want me here, don't you?" he appealed, turning to Simon.

He looked at the floor between his shoes, fearing that if he talked, he would start to cry. As if from a distance, he heard Alec laugh.

"Not everyone wants you all the time, Jace," he said.

"Don't be ridiculous," he heard Jace say, but he sounded disappointed. "Fine, then. We'll be in the weapons room."

The door closed behind them with a definitive click. Simon's eyes were stinging. "Sit down," he said. "Here, on the couch."

He sank gratefully onto the soft cushions. He scratched at his cheek, surprised when he found tears instead of whatever he thought was making him itch. "I don't cry much usually," he found herself saying. "It doesn't mean anything. I'll be all right in a minute."

"Most people don't cry when they're upset or frightened, but rather when they're frustrated. Your frustration is understandable. You've been through a most trying time."

"You could say that." Simon smirked.

Hodge pulled the chair out from behind the desk, dragging it over so that he could sit facing him. His eyes, she saw, were gray, like his hair and tweed coat, but there was kindness in them. "Is there anything I could get for you?" he asked. "Something to drink? Some tea?"

Simon shook his head "I want to find my mom. And then I want to find out who took her in the first place, and I want to kill them." Again. The uncharacteristic show of anger.

"Unfortunately," said Hodge, "we're all out of bitter revenge at the moment, so it's either tea or nothing."

Simon laughed wetly, hollowly, running his hands through his hair. He reached under his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. "What am I supposed to do?"

"You could start by telling me a little about what happened," Hodge said. "The demon you saw in your apartment—was that the first such creature you'd ever seen? You had no inkling such creatures existed before?"

"One before, but I didn't realize what it was. The first time I saw Jace—"

"Right, of course, how foolish of me to forget." Hodge nodded. "In Pandemonium. That was the first time?"

"Yes."

Before Hodge could say anything else, Simon decided to just go all out.

"There was someone with me. He saw it to. His name's Dean."

"Ah, yes, Dean," Hodge said mildly. "And your mother never mentioned them to you—nothing about another world, perhaps, that most people cannot see?" Simon blinked at the non-sequitir. This was the first time he had brought the fact that he wasn't alone up. What's with the response? "Did she seem particularly interested in myths, fairy tales, legends of the fantastic—"

"No. She hated all that stuff. She didn't believe in them." And why are you avoiding the subject of Dean? Suspicion began swirling in Simon's still empty but for the tisane gut.

Hodge scratched his head. His hair didn't move. "Most peculiar," he murmured.

"Not really. She was normal. She was great. She raised me normal."

"Normal people don't generally find their homes ransacked by demons," Hodge said, not unkindly.

"It really couldn't have been a mistake?"

"If it had been a mistake," Hodge said, "and you were an ordinary boy, you would not have seen the demon that attacked you—or if you had, your mind would have processed it as something else entirely: a vicious dog, even another human being. That you could see it, that it spoke to you—"

"But Jace said there were people born with the Eye. I could have been born with it."

"But you don't remember seeing them before?"

That got him. And then—"How did you know it spoke to me?"

"Jace reported that you said 'It talked.'"

"It hissed." Simon shivered, remembering. "It talked about wanting to eat me, but I think it wasn't supposed to. At least not without getting in trouble."

"Raveners are generally under the control of a stronger demon. They're not very bright or capable on their own," explained Hodge. "Did it say what its master was looking for?"

Simon shook his head. "There was the mention of a _Valentine_ , but—"

Hodge jerked upright, so abruptly that Hugo, who had been resting comfortably on his shoulder, launched himself into the air with an irritable caw. "Valentine?"

"Yes," Simon said. "I heard the same name in Pandemonium from the boy—I mean, the demon—"

"It's a name we all know," Hodge said shortly. His voice was steady, but Simon could see a slight tremble in his hands. Hugo, back on his shoulder, ruffed his feathers uneasily.

"A demon?"

"No. Valentine is—was—a Shadowhunter."

"A Shadowhunter? Why do you say was?"

"Because he's dead," said Hodge flatly. "He's been dead for fifteen years."

Simon frowned."Could it be someone else? Someone with the same name? Someone using his name?" Why would he go after mom? Me?

Hodge's laugh was a humorless bark. "No. But it could have been someone using his name to send a message." He stood up and paced to his desk, hands locked behind his back. "And this would be the time to do it."

"Why now?"

"Because of the Accords."

"The peace negotiations? Jace mentioned those. Peace with who?"

"Downworlders," Hodge murmured. His mouth was a tight line, voice taut with tension. It was affecting Simon. "Forgive me," he said. "This must be confusing for you."

Simon snorted. "You think?"

"Downworlders are those who share the Shadow World with us. We have always lived in an uneasy peace with them."

"Like vampires, werewolves, and…"

"The Fair Folk," Hodge said. "Faeries. And Lilith's children, being half-demon, are warlocks. There are many other creatures out there as well."

"So what are you Shadowhunters?"

"We are sometimes called the Nephilim," said Hodge. "In the Bible they were the offspring of humans and angels. The legend of the origin of Shadowhunters is that they were created more than a thousand years ago, when humans were being overrun by demon invasions from other worlds. A warlock summoned the Angel Raziel, who mixed some of his own blood with the blood of men in a cup, and gave it to those men to drink. Those who drank the Angel's blood became Shadowhunters, as did their children and their children's children. The cup thereafter was known as the Mortal Cup. Though the legend may not be fact, what is true is that through the years, when Shadowhunter ranks were depleted, it was always possible to create more Shadowhunters using the Cup."

" _Was_ always possible?"

"The Cup is gone," said Hodge. "Destroyed by Valentine, just before he died. He set a great fire and burned himself to death along with his family, his wife, and his child. Scorched the land black. No one will build there still. They say the land is cursed."

"Is it?"

"Possibly. The Clave hands down curses on occasion as punishment for breaking the Law. Valentine broke the greatest Law of all—he took up arms against his fellow Shadowhunters and slew them. He and his group, the Circle, killed dozens of their brethren along with hundreds of Downworlders during the last Accords. They were only barely defeated."

"Why would he want to turn on other Shadowhunters?" This Valentine person was beginning to paint a very ugly picture. And if he wasn't dead, if he had, in some way, come back to life, and was now after Simon's mom, he didn't know if she could ever be safe until Valentine died.

_I could make sure he dies and stays dead._

He shuddered.

"He didn't approve of the Accords. He despised Downworlders and felt that they should be slaughtered, wholesale, to keep this world pure for human beings. Though the Downworlders are not demons, not invaders, he felt they were demonic in nature, and that that was enough. The Clave did not agree—they felt the assistance of Downworlders was necessary if we were ever to drive off demonkind for good. And who could argue, really, that the Fair Folk do not belong in this world, when they have been here longer than we have?"

"Did the Accords get signed?"

"Yes, they were signed. When the Downworlders saw the Clave turn on Valentine and his Circle in their defense, they realized Shadowhunters were not their enemies. Ironically, with his insurrection Valentine made the Accords possible." Hodge sat down in the chair again. "I apologize, this must be a dull history lesson for you. That was Valentine. A firebrand, a visionary, a man of great personal charm and conviction. And a killer. Now someone is invoking his name …"

"But who?" Simon asked. "And what does my mother have to do with it?" _Who what why how. Who. What. Why. How._

Hodge stood up again. "I don't know. But I shall do what I can to find out. I will send messages to the Clave and also to the Silent Brothers. They may wish to speak with you."

He stood up. "Is there any chance I could go home?"

Hodge looked concerned. "No, I—I wouldn't think that would be wise."

"There are things I need there, even if I'm going to stay here. Clothes—"

"We can give you money to purchase new clothes."

Simon sent him a flat look.

Hodge hesitated, then offered a short, inverted nod. "If Jace agrees to it, you may both go." He turned to the desk, rummaging among the papers. He glanced over his shoulder as if realizing he was still there. "He's in the weapons room."

Hodge smiled crookedly at his blank look. "Church will take you."

"The cat?" he asked, glancing toward the door where the fat blue Persian was curled up like a small ottoman. He rose as he came forward, fur rippling like liquid. With an imperious meow he led him into the hall. Apparently, _the cat_.

*.*


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll disappear again in a bit but here have some more

The weapons room looked exactly the way something called "the weapons room" sounded like it would look. Brushed metal walls were hung with every manner of sword, dagger, spike, pike, featherstaff, bayonet, whip, mace, hook, and bow. Soft leather bags filled with arrows dangled from hooks, and there were stacks of boots, leg guards, and gauntlets for wrists and arms. The place smelled of metal and leather and steel polish. It was awesome.

Alec and Jace, no longer barefoot, sat at a long table in the center of the room, their heads bent over an object between them. They both looked up to the sound of the door closing behind Simon.

He walked closer, conscious of the fact that both of them were still staring at him. He decided to look at the items on the table instead. "What are you doing?"

"Putting the last touches on these." Jace moved aside so he could see what lay on the table: three long slim wands of a dully glowing silver. They did not look sharp or particularly dangerous. " _Sanvi, Sansanvi_ , and _Semangelaf_. They're seraph blades."

Simon frowned as he looked at them. They didn't look like blades, when they were like this, but... "Are these the things you used on—on the demon? In Pandemonium, I mean."

Jace grinned at him and nodded. "One of them." He pulled out one of the blades from somewhere in his belt, holding it in his palm and presenting it to Simon. " _Barakiel_."

Simon frowned, looking at the blade in Jace's hand, and comparing it to the ones still on the table. Each of the blades were different, unique in their own way, even to Simon, the not-so-mundane. " _Sanvi, Sansavi, Semangelaf_ —" he looked at Jace's other blade again "— _Barakiel_. What are those?"

Simon saw Alec send him a look, as if he wasn't expecting the question, but he answered, "angels. We name our blades with Angels."

"How does that work?" Simon asked again. "Do you just—invoke that certain angel on your blade? And he helps you?"

"Not exactly," Jace said patiently. It was the first time that Simon has had a discussion with him about Shadowhunters that no tone of superiority had slipped into his voice. He felt like dancing a victory dance. "It is believed though that when you name your blade a part of its spirit joins the blade."

The _joins your fight_ remained unsaid in his statement. He kept staring at the blades, looking innocent and innocuous and a little pretty, but knew that they were painfully dangerous when it came down to it. "There are different angels, right?" He licked his lips, and then looked up to meet Alec's, and then Jace's, eyes. "Which ones are these?"

Alec and Jace exchanged glances, as if they were deciding whether to tell or not. Simon was about to tell them to forget about it in the silence that followed his question when Alec began speaking, albeit coldly and grudgingly.

" _Sanvi_ , _Sansavi_ , and _Semangelaf_ are the three angels sent by God to find Lilith and bring her to Eden," he began, voice monotone and flat, face impassive. He wasn't even looking at Simon. " _Barakiel_ is the angel of lightning. He is also one of the angels who came and taught humans. He taught astrology." He ended his explanation with a cold, careless one-shouldered shrug, as if he was attempting to make it look like he didn't care. But it was obvious he cared. Very much.

"So what's it made of?" Simon asked again, because they were finally answering his questions and not looking down at him from their noses for it. "Magic?"

Alec looked horrified, as if he'd asked him to put on a tutu and execute a perfect pirouette. It was actually a better mental picture than the first he had ever conjured when he woke up.

Jace finally put _Barakiel_ back into his pocket. Or belt. Was he wearing a utility belt? It looked as if he just snapped his wrist and the thing disappeared. "The funny thing about mundies," Jace said, to nobody in particular, "is how obsessed with magic they are for a bunch of people who don't even know what the word means."

 _Shouldn't have jinxed it_ , Simon thought sadly. "I know what it means, though," he protested, once again thinking of the Inheritance Cycle.

"No, you don't, you just think you do. Magic is a dark and elemental force, not just a lot of sparkly wands and crystal balls and talking goldfish."

Simon rolled his eyes, just barely resisting the impulse to mime a duck's beak with his hands. "I never said anything about crystal balls and talking goldfish," he announced loudly, glaring at Jace and talking over him when the British blond ass opened his mouth again. "I meant to say that I know magic is using energy to manipulate or redirect the nature of the world."

There was a suppressed look of surprise in Jace's eyes. He said, "And where did you learn that, little mundie? From the man who said an electric eel was a rubber duck and made the whole world believe him?" He shuddered. "Bless the soul of the man who actually baths in the presence of the rubber duckie."

The image of someone bathing with Pittsburgh's Rubber Duck flashed through Simon's mind, but before he could speak, Alec said, "Enough" tiredly, surely.

"You're driveling," Simon muttered to Jace.

"I'm not," said Jace, with great dignity.

"Yes, you are," said Alec, rather unexpectedly. "Look, we don't do magic, okay?" he added, not looking at Simon. "That's all you need to know about it."

So many things have happened to him since he woke up earlier but this probably took the cake as the greatest plot twist. Alec agreed with him. It was such a stupid, minor thing to celebrate, but he knew that if he said anything, he would be aggravating the dislike that Alec had already taken to him.

He looked at Jace instead. "Hodge said I can go home."

Jace nearly dropped the seraph blade he had just picked up from the table. He putit down gently, and then looked at Simon. "He said what?"

"To pack some more clothes," Simon informed him. "And look through my mom's things. He thinks she would have kept at least clues to... being Nephilim. If you come with me," he added hastily, seeing the dawning horror on Jace's face.

"Jace," Alec exhaled, but Jace ignored him.

"Down the rabbit hole." Jace grinned crookedly. "Good idea. If we go right now, we should have another three, four hours of daylight."

When they were outside of the weapons room, Jace asked, "Have you got your house keys?"

Simon patted the reassuring bump and jingle of keys in his pocket and nodded. "Yeah."

"Good. Not that we couldn't break in, but we'd run a greater chance of disturbing any wards that might be up if we did."

"If you say so." The hall widened out into a marble-floored foyer, a black metal gate set into one wall. It was only when Jace pushed a button next to the gate and it lit up that he realized it was an elevator. It creaked and groaned as it rose to meet them. "Jace?"

"Yeah?"

"How did you know I had Shadowhunter blood? Was there some way you could tell?"

The elevator arrived with a final groan. Jace unlatched the gate and slid it open. The inside reminded Simon of a birdcage, all black metal and decorative bits of gilt. Jace licked his lips. In the time he's known him, Simon has never seen Jace give any nervous tics, but here you go. He hesitated a little and then finally settled with, "I guessed."

"You guessed? You must have been pretty sure, considering you could have killed me."

He pressed a button in the wall. He glanced at Simon. "I was pretty sure."

Not really comforting, Simon wanted to tell him as he looked away, straight to the doors of the elevator, but he kept that to himself. Instead, he answered with a simple "I see."

Simon looked at him from the corner of his eye. Jace seemed as if he wanted to say something, but then stopped himself and shook his head. He turned to Simon and—immediately reeled, hand on his jaw. "What the hell was that for?" he asked in surprise and pain. There wasn't any anger in his voice.

Simon was never a violent person in his short lifetime, but he could pack a punch, as sampled by one Jace the stupid British blond three seconds ago. "You should have told me you were _really,_ really sure."

They rode back down in silence.

Jace spent the train ride to Brooklyn wrapped in an angry, brooding silence. Simon stuck close to him anyway, feeling a little bit guilty, especially remembering his mom's words: to never hit anybody, especially when it was so tempting to just pull your fist back and drive it into their stupid noses.

He knew he didn't have to feel guilty, that he was probably entitled to the frustration and the anger and the fear and the all-around panic that was beginning to look like the only emotion in his life in the foreseeable future, but he still couldn't help it; he had been raised good and well by a woman who had never—and would never—hurt a fly.

Simon didn't really mind the silence, no matter how mood affecting Jace's was. It gave him a chance to think, about the past few days, about the conversation with Luke, about what he was going to tell Clary and Charlie and Dean about his three-day disappearance, about his mom, about everything. He even started wondering if they were going to be better off not knowing anything about this at all.

Farther down the train, two teenage girls sitting on an orange bench seat were giggling together. The sort of girls Simon had never liked at school, sporting pink jelly mules and fake tans. Simon stared at them for a little while, before he realized they were giggling at Jace. For Jace. Staring at him too. He's gotta say, though, the dude carried the brooding persona like a cloak around him. Isabelle was right—the rudeness made him sexy. Even sexier.

 _But that would imply I find him sexy in the first place_ , Logic argued.

 _But don't you_? Emotion jeered.

 _Shut up, guys_ , Simon yelled.

Jace didn't have Alec's delicate, baby doll cameo looks, but Jace's face was more interesting. In daylight his eyes were the color of golden syrup and were…looking right at Simon. He cocked an eyebrow. "Can I help you with something?"

"You're not wearing your invisibility cloak today," he observed quietly, squinting. "Those girls are staring at you." He tipped his head to one side, gesturing to the girls.

"There is no cloak involved in glamour, mundie," Jace answered in confusion, but he immediately gathered himself and assumed an air of mellow gratification. "Of course they are," he said. "I am, after all, stunningly attractive."

"Haven't you ever heard that modesty is an attractive trait?"

"Only from ugly people," Jace confided. "The meek may inherit the earth, but at the moment it belongs to the conceited. Like me." He winked at the girls, who giggled and hid behind their hair.

Simon shook his head. He wanted to roll his eyes, but he's done that so many times already he was afraid his eyeballs were going to fall off. There was more time in the future to exercise his eye muscles. "How come they can see you, though?"

"Glamours are a pain to use. Sometimes we don't bother." You bothered when you interrupted my day with my friends, he thought at him, but Jace wasn't exactly psychic, and Simon was grateful for that little fact.

The incident with the girls on the train did seem to put him in a better mood. When they left the station and headed up the hill to Simon's apartment, he took one of the seraph blades out of his pocket and started flipping it back and forth between his fingers and across his knuckles, the way Simon had seen people do with coins, humming to himself. He remembered wanting to learn how to do that—roll coins in his fingertips—and failed.

"Do you have to do that?" Simon asked, glaring slightly. "It's annoying."

Jace hummed louder. It was a loud, tuneful sort of hum, somewhere between "Happy Birthday" and "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." He was loud, and he was annoying.

Simon sighed "I'm sorry I smacked you," he said.

He stopped humming. "Just be glad you hit me and not Alec. He would have hit you back."

"He seems to be itching for the chance," Simon said, snorting and shaking his head. "What was it that Alec called you? Para-something?"

" _Parabatai,_ " said Jace. "It means a pair of warriors who fight together—who are closer than brothers. Alec is more than just my best friend. My father and his father were parabatai when they were young. His father was my godfather—that's why I live with them. They're my adopted family."

"You're adopted?"

Jace looked at him strangely, but something in his face must have meant something to him, because he nodded. "My parents are dead. The Lightwoods adopted me."

"But your last name isn't Lightwood." The look Jace shot him made Simon think that that wasn't the next statement he was expecting from Simon's mouth. Maybe he was expecting Simon to ask him what happened. How he was dealing with it. But he's dealt with that same thing, whenever people found out about his dad. He didn't want to think about it happening again in the future, but he knew he wouldn't want to be asked those questions if he were put in the situation.

Again, a small voice in his head whispered, laughing. He shuddered.

"No," Jace said simply.

Simon simply nodded, and he felt his heart start to beat faster and thump louder he was sure even Jace could hear it from where he stood. They've arrived at his house. There was a nervous, anxious humming in his ears, and the palms of his hands were damp with sweat. His—Alec's—shirt was sticking to his back, and he pulled on the front to get the stubborn neckline to balance on the center. He stopped by the doorway, looking around, looking for traces of the break-in, or whatever it was that happened.

But there were no signs of destruction. Bathed in pleasant afternoon light, the brownstone seemed to glow. Bees droned lazily around the rosebushes under Madame Dorothea's windows.

He knew what he was doing: he was stalling. Trying to put off the inevitability of facing the reality that his mother was gone. He gulped. She was alive, she had to be.

But she wasn't here. That was what he was about to face.

"It looks the same," Simon said. His voice came out as a croak, and he cleared his throat.

"On the outside." Jace reached into his jeans pocket and drew out a metal and plastic contraption—it looked familiar. When he raised it to eye-level, he figured why: it was a Sensor, the same thing he had apparently shoved down that demon's throat and used to kill it.

(He was also internally glad Jace didn't mention the way his voice cracked.)

"What do Sensors do, exactly?" Simon asked, watching Jace and the thing. The Sensor.

"It picks up frequencies, like a radio does, but these frequencies are demonic in origin."

"Like an EMF reader, except it reads demon shortwave instead of electromagnetic frequency," he said, not really a statement so much as a question. He was tired of asking questions—right now he'd prefer for his thoughts to be confirmed, thanks.

Jace looked at him strangely again.

"I watch Ghost Busters," he said defensively. "And Zak Bagans is good enough reason to keep watching Ghost Adventures, never mind Aaron Goodwin's humor. And Nick Groff's face."

Jace squinted at him suspiciously, but said, "something like demon shortwave, yes," anyway. "What are you blabbering about?"

Simon rolled his eyes and threw his arms up. This wasn't gonna get anywhere. "Can you finish the sweep then, please? I'd rather not prolong the agony."

 _Just a while ago you were trying to_ , that same voice in his head leered at him.

 _Quiet_ , he commanded it, and then immediately felt ridiculous. He was scolding a voice in his head. Maybe this whole thing was bonking him in the head worse that he expected. _Quiet_.

Jace held the Sensor out in front of him as he approached the house. It clicked faintly as they climbed the stairs, then stopped. Jace frowned. "It's picking up trace activity, but that could just be left over from that night. I'm not getting anything strong enough for there to be demons present now."

Simon let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and felt the warm ripple of relief flow through him. "Good." He retrieved his keys.

Jace touched his arm. "I'll go in first," he said. Simon wanted to tell him that he didn't need to hide behind him, but the words wouldn't come. He could taste the terror he'd felt when he'd first seen the Ravener. The taste was sharp and coppery on his tongue like old pennies. But he shook his head.

"I have to—" he started, and then choked on his words before gulping. "I have to," he simply said, but he was convincing himself and they both knew it.

Jace looked at him, and then nodded, reaching to push the door open. He pushed the door open with one hand, beckoning him to enter with the hand that held the Sensor. Once inside the entryway, Simon blinked, adjusting his eyes to the dimness. The bulb overhead was still out, the skylight too filthy to let in any light, and shadows lay thick across the chipped floor. Madame Dorothea's door was firmly shut. No light showed through the gap under it. Simon's door was shut as well, but at least there was light streaming through the cracks on all sides of the door.

Simon had an uneasy thought about Chuck getting in harm's way.

Chuck wasn't a bad guy, he was actually cool. Reclusive and alcoholic, maybe, but he was funny and he tried to be as realistic as possible, even though he usually came off as cynical and pessimistic. And he treated everyone as equals. He didn't look down at Simon because he was a teenager. Chuck was a good guy.

He got the sudden urge to run to Chuck's door, and he did, visibly startling Jace who reached out and grabbed him. "What?" he whispered hurriedly.

Simon shook his head and took his arm out of Jace's grasp, dashing to Chuck's door and knocking, trying to keep the sounds to the minimum in case, you know. Evil things.

He had to wait for almost three minutes, but he was so relieved the door opened to show Chuck's blood-shot eyes he hugged the old man.

"Oh, hey, kiddo," Chuck said softly, a little disgruntled, but he patted Simon's back comfortingly. "Heard about your mom."

Simon pulled back immediately. "You did?"

Chuck's smile and eyes were sad. For the first time since Simon met him, Chuck Shurley seemed 100% sober, though his eyes were red, but that could have been because he was asleep. There were dark circles under his eyes, his beard was unkempt, and he looked gaunt. "The police were here. They were asking about her."

"Who reported it?" Simon asked. "Luke?" As soon as the name passed his lips, an almost physical pain ran through him. Luke, the man who had pushed him in the swings when he was a kid. _Luke_.

Chuck shook his head and sighed. "I did. I—I was worried. I didn't know what was going on, I thought—I asked Dorothea, but she said your mom was preparing for a vacation. But it didn't involve screaming."

"Simon," Jace said. Chuck jumped, as if noticing Jace only for the first time, and then squinted at him.

"You look familiar," he muttered.

"I was here a few days ago," Jace said, "you must have seen me then."

But Chuck was pale when Simon looked at him, staring at Jace, wide-eyed and... panicked? Yeah, that was what he looked like. "Chuck?" Simon said, and then hesitated. "You okay?"

"You look too familiar," Chuck proclaimed. "I don't like this. I don't want this job anymore. I'm quitting," he rambled.

"Job? What job?"

"My writing, Simon! I don't wanna do it anymore. It's making me crazy. You—" he stopped, staring at Simon and then shaking his head. He looked... he looked sad. "You go on and do whatever. I'll—I'm gonna get drunk."

Simon nodded and stepped back, pulling the door closed after him. He turned back to Jace, who seemed just as confused as he was. He asked, "What does that mundie's writing have to do with anything?"

Simon shrugged, and then went on ahead to the stairs. He put his hand on the banister out of habit, froze, looked at it, and pulled his hand off. It came away wet. "Blood," he heard himself say. "Could it be mine? ...Mom's?"

"It'd be dry by now if it were," Jace said. "And your mom disappeared earlier than that. Come on."

Simon headed up the stairs, a vague repetition of that afternoon the other day— _the  other day, just another day, turned out it wasn't—_ when he was running up these very steps, towards the feeling of _wrong – no – please – mom_.

Those feelings were absent now, but his hand still shook as he tried not to wipe the blood on his palm off his—Alec's—clothes.

The landing was dark. He fumbled the keys three times before managing to slide the right one into the lock. Jace leaned over him, watching impatiently. " _Don't breathe down my neck_ ," he hissed; his hand was still shaking, rather badly. Finally the tumblers caught, the lock clicking open.

Jace pulled him back. "I'll go in first."

Once more he wanted to say no, but he felt as if all of his courage had been zapped out by his feat from the front door, and stepped aside to let him pass. His palms were sticky, one from sweat and the other from... not from the heat.

It was cool inside the apartment, almost cold—chilly air seeped from the entryway, stinging his skin. He felt goose bumps rising as he followed Jace down the short hallway and into the living room. The air conditioner was off. It was the only coolant Jocelyn had approved to be installed in their home, but it was still cold.

He felt something was... wrong.

_Very wrong._

The living room was empty. Startlingly, entirely empty, the way it had been when they'd first moved in—the walls and floor bare, the furniture gone, even the curtains torn down from the windows. Only faint lighter squares of paint on the wall showed where Jocelyn's paintings had hung. As if in a dream, Simon turned and walked toward the kitchen, Jace pacing behind him, his light eyes narrowed.

The kitchen was just as empty, even the refrigerator gone, the chairs, the table—the kitchen cabinets stood open. That was what felt wrong about the apartment. It was cool, too cool, and there was nothing inside to explain.

_Literally nothing._

_Quiet._

He cleared his throat. "What would demons," he said, "want with our microwave? Even my little coffee maker is gone. Christ. That was Charlie's, for fuck's sake."

He didn't usually curse, or use God's name in vain. His mother never got him baptized, and they never went to church, but Simon had always been Gnostic. He prayed sometimes. He just—he just couldn't help it anymore. He could find no other way to express his emotions other than to say, "fuck this shit."

Jace shook his head, mouth curling under at the corners. "I don't know, but I'm not sensing any demonic presence right now. I'd say they're long gone."

"What if it wasn't demons?" he asked, freezing and regretting ever planting that idea in his mind. If there is anything that can kill anything, it's an idea. _Heh, good one,_ he thinks, because Leonardo DiCaprio somehow soothed him for a moment. It didn’t last long, though.

Jace looked at him strangely again—Simon was labeling it his _are mundanes really this stupid or is this one an unknown case_ face. "Do you think mundane thieves would have broken in here and looted it clean of everything after the police had come?"

Simon shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. I don't even fully understand what's happening right now." Something in Jace's statement... "Do you think—"

"No," Jace said sharply, shaking his head. "Are you satisfied?" he asked, looking at Simon again. There was something strange in his tone. "There's nothing here."

Simon shook his head. "I want to see my room."

He looked as if he were about to say something, then thought better of it. "If that's what it takes," he said, sliding the blade into his pocket.

The light in the hallway was out, but Simon didn't need much light to navigate inside his own house. He could move around here from one place to another blindfolded and legs tied together. His thoughts turned to Jace, who was standing behind him, and he felt himself flush.He decided to ignore it for now, and finally found the door to his bedroom and reached for the knob. He stopped right before his skin touched the metal contraption, feeling even from the small distance the unbearable cold. He saw Jace look at him quickly, but he took a deep breath of air and—

The door blew outward, knocking him off his feet. He skidded across the hallway floor and slammed into the wall, rolling onto his stomach. There was a dull roaring and ringing in his ears as he pulled himself up to his knees, his eyesight wavering as he tried to think past the pain and confusion and the cold feeling of dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

Jace, flat against the wall, was fumbling in his pocket, his face a mask of surprise. Looming over him like a giant in a fairy tale was an enormous man, big around as an oak tree, a broad-bladed axe clutched in one gigantic dead-white hand. Tattered filthy rags hung off his grimy skin, and his hair was a single matted tangle, thick with dirt. He stank of poisonous sweat and rotting flesh.

Without having to be told, Simon knew what it was. That was a Forsaken. _That's a Forsaken_ , he thought absently. _That's what Jace could've turned me into, if he was wrong._

Thank god he wasn't. He felt strangely calm, past the dull pain of hitting his head against the wall. _I’m so anxious I have transcended past panicked and am now resigned to my fate,_ he thought, his voice quite _dignified_ in his head.

He snorts and looks aroung, finding that Jace had the seraph blade in his hand. He raised it, calling out: " _Sansanvi_!"

A blade shot from the tube. Simon thought of old movies where bayonets were hidden inside walking sticks, released at the flick of a switch. He remembered that night in Pandemonium, staring at Jace and the sword in his hand, and even this time, he was quickly mesmerized by the way it looked: clear as glass, with a glowing hilt, wickedly sharp and nearly as long as Jace's forearm. He thinks of Lightsabers and he reprimands himself for being such a _coward,_ how can you give up, this is not the time for self-pity and the resignation of _death_.

Simon raised himself on his arms slowly, just as Jace struck out, slashing at the gigantic man, who staggered back with a bellow.

Jace whirled around, racing toward him. He caught his arm, hauling him to his feet, pushing Simon ahead of him down the hall. He could hear the... the Forsaken behind them, following; its footsteps sounded like lead weights being dropped onto the floor, but it was coming on fast.

He thought of Madame Dorothea scolding him again, telling him to get his crap together and stop the stupid racket. Now was an unbelievably stupid time to think of that.

They sped through the entryway and out onto the landing, Jace whipping around to slam the front door shut. He heard the click of the automatic lock and caught his breath. The door shook on its hinges as a tremendous blow struck against it from inside the apartment. Simon backed away to the stairs. His eyes were glowing with manic excitement when he glanced at Simon, saying, "Get downstairs! Get out of the—"

Another blow came, and this time the hinges gave way and the door flew outward. It would have knocked Jace over if he hadn't moved so fast that Simon barely saw it; suddenly he was on the top stair, the blade burning in his hand like a fallen star. It was flashing brightly, almost blindingly so, the light mesmerizing as it was terrifying. Simon saw Jace look at him and shout something, but he couldn't hear him over the roar of the gigantic creature that burst from the shattered door, making straight for him. He flattened herself against the wall as it passed in a wave of heat and stink— and then its axe was flying, whipping through the air, slicing toward Jace's head. He ducked, and it thunked heavily into the banister, biting deep.

Jace laughed. The laugh seemed to enrage the creature, as if he was heavily insulted (That thing has feelings, Simon thought inanely, still pressed back against the wall so tightly he imagined he could feel the plaster cracking under his weight. That thing can still feel); abandoning the axe, he lurched at Jace with his enormous fists raised. Jace brought the seraph blade around in an arcing sweep, burying it to the hilt in the giant's shoulder. For a moment the giant stood swaying. Then he lurched forward, his hands outstretched and grasping. Jace stepped aside hastily, but not hastily enough: The enormous fists caught hold of him as the giant staggered and fell, dragging Jace in his wake.

Jace was going to die, Simon thought. He was going to die. It was enough to drive Simon off the wall, using it as a spring board to launch himself straight at the—the Forsaken. He caught it around the waist, actually making the fall faster, but Simon reared up, grabbed the hilt of the sword still in the Forsaken's shoulder, and pulled it off. Then, after a beat of hesitance and panic, plunged it down onto the Forsaken's back.

It felt like he was simply sinking a warm knife into a block of butter, except there was an audible snap as he broke the Forsaken's spine.

Jace was finally free from its grasp, and he twisted, right before his head could hit the bottom stair.

Simon felt something grab the scruff of his shirt, pulling him back and almost choking him as he fell on his butt on a step. He was going to have a plethora of bruises later, but he couldn't really think clearly.

He'd just killed someone.

Or something, but it used to be _someone_.

He was shaking, and he couldn't help himself, not when there was old blood staining his palm and fresh, stinking blood splattered on him and his shirt and his pants and his glasses.

He could still remember the feeling of pressing the seraph blade into the flesh of the forsaken.

And then—

He bent to the side of the banister and retched, his empty stomach gurgling in protest of the abuse. Bile and acid rose to the back of his throat and made his eyes and nose sting, and he felt tears form in his ducts.

He spat, gulped, and breathed shakily before straightening, rubbing at his eyes.

Simon couldn't help it. He needed help, that was for sure, but he couldn't help but look down at the bottom step. The... the thing was there, laying on its back, his foot twitching even in death. Its face was dead-white and papery, latticed with a black network of horrible scars that almost obliterated his features. His eye sockets were red suppurating pits. Fighting the urge to gag again, stumbled back, his aching back hitting the corner of the step above where he sat.

Jace moved towards the thing, graceful as a cat, and pulled the blade from where it was protruding on its shoulder. It shone when Jace touched it, as if in recognition, before Simon heard a snick and then the blade was gone.

Jace's shirt sticky with blood—his own or the giant's, he couldn't tell. "Is it dead?" asked Simon flatly, voice croaky from the abuse on his throat. He cleared it. He knew the answer.

"Yes." Jace said it so simply, like it wasn't a surprise Simon had just killed someone—or what used to be someone—right at his foyer.

"Why?" Simon asked, wrapping his arms around himself. "Why aren't I—what did I do, Jace?"

Jace was quiet for a while, until he was standing right over Simon. He knelt and put a hesitant hand on Simon's shoulder. He didn't brush it off. It was such a tender, gentle action, it was hard to. "This proves my theory," he said quietly. "You are a Shadowhunter, Simon. You have Clave blood."

And that's what matters, right? That's the only that will ever matter. He wanted to cry, but instead he shook his head and stood up, refusing to be a stupid drama queen. This wasn't the time.

_It's never the time._

_Quiet._

Simon stared at Jace, who was cradling his left arm almost protectively to his chest. And then he remembered that the—the—the Forsaken had dragged Jace— "Is your arm alright?"

"No. Broken," he said. "Can you reach into my pocket?"

He hesitated, nodded. "Which one?"

"Inside jacket, right side. Take out my stele and hand it to me." He held still as he nervously slipped his fingers into his pocket. He was standing so close that he could smell the scent of him, sweat and soap and blood. His breath tickled the back of his neck. His fingers finally closed on a tube and he drew it out, not looking at him.

"Thanks," he said. His fingers traced it briefly.

It looked like a wand to Simon—a wicked, dangerous looking wand, with a glowing crystal tip. There were crystals embedded on the silver cylinder hilt.

Jace pressed it the skin of his left arm, his right hand shaky. Simon watched as black traces of their—their tattoos came into existence on his skin. He remembered Jace's words from the alley, how the Marks were burned into their skin.

The image of scar tissue came into his mind unbidden, and he looked away, back at the body of the Forsaken, still visible. He half-expected it to disappear.

"I thought it would disappear," he said. "Back to its own dimension—you said."

"I said that's what happens to demons when they die." Wincing, he shrugged his jacket off his shoulder, baring the upper part of his left arm. "That wasn't a demon." He started drawing another Mark.

Jace saw him staring and grinned the ghost of a grin. "See something you like?" he asked, smirking.

Simon rolled his eyes, his eyes caught by an inked mark just below his shoulder, a curious shape almost like a star. Two arms of the star jutted out from the rest of the mark, unconnected. "This," he said, "is what happens when Shadowhunters are wounded."

With the tip of the stele, he traced a line connecting the two arms of the star. When he lowered his hand, the mark was shining as if it had been etched with phosphorescent ink. As Simon watched, it sank into his skin, like a weighted object sinking into water. It left behind a ghostly reminder: a pale, thin scar, almost invisible.

 _Burned into our skin_.

An image rose in Simon's mind. His mother's back, not quite covered by her bathing suit top, the blades of her shoulders and curves of her spine dappled with narrow, white marks. It was like something he had seen in a dream—her mother's back didn't really look like that, he knew. But the image nagged at her.

Jace let out a sigh, the tense look of pain leaving his face. He moved the arm, slowly at first, then more easily, lifting it up and down, clenching his fist. Clearly it was no longer broken.

"Does it usually take two?" Simon asked. "Fixing broken bones, I mean." He didn't have to ask about the effects of the Mark itself. He had experienced it. What he was more curious about though...

"That was an iratze—a healing rune," Jace said. "And, no, it depends on how bad the injury is. Sometimes we need only one." Like you did. He shoved the slim wand—stele—into his belt and shrugged his jacket back on. With the toe of his boot he prodded the giant's corpse. "We're going to have to report this to Hodge," he said. "He'll freak out," he added, as if the thought of Hodge's alarm gave him some satisfaction. Jace, Simon thought, was the sort of person who liked it when things were happening, even things that were bad.

"Why will he freak?" Simon said. "And you still haven't explained why it didn't disappear."

Jace nodded. "You see the scars all over its face?"

"Yes."

"Those were made with a stele. You asked me what happens when you carve Marks onto someone who doesn't have Shadowhunter blood. Just one Mark will only burn you, but a lot of Marks, powerful ones? Carved into the flesh of a totally ordinary human being with no trace of Shadowhunter ancestry? You get this." He jerked his chin at the corpse. "The runes are agonizingly painful. The Marked ones go insane—the pain drives them out of their minds. They become fierce, mindless killers. They don't sleep or eat unless you make them, and they die, usually quickly. Runes have great power and can be used to do great good—but they can be used for evil. The Forsaken are evil."

“So basically that’s—” he glanced at it, then away, “—a mundane.

Jace nodded.

"You gave me a Mark when you were only pretty sure I wasn't a mundane." He mocked the way Jace had said 'pretty sure' earlier, and it came out botched and ugly. He didn't care. He shook his head. "But why would anyone do that to themselves?"

"Nobody would. It's something that gets done to them. By a warlock, maybe, some Downworlder gone bad. The Forsaken are loyal to the one who Marked them, and they're fierce killers. They can obey simple commands, too. It's like having a—a slave army." He stepped over the dead Forsaken, and then turned to frown at him. "I thought you punching me meant we've gotten over that little squabble?"

Simon rolled his eyes and stood, turning around and looking up the stairs. "I'm going back up."

"There might be more of them," he said, almost as if he were hoping there would be. "You shouldn't go back in there." He started up the steps, but they were stopped by a shrill and familiar voice when he finally got to where Simon was standing.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. There are more of them where the first one came from."

Jace spun and stared. So did Simon, although he knew immediately who had spoken. That gravelly accent was unmistakable.

"Madame Dorothea?"

The old woman inclined her head regally. She stood in the doorway of her apartment, dressed in what looked like a tent made of raw purple silk. Gold chains glittered on her wrists and roped her throat. Her long badger-striped hair straggled from the bun pinned to the top of her head.

Jace was still staring. "But…"

"More what?" Simon asked.

"More Forsaken," replied Dorothea with a cheerfulness that, he felt, didn't really fit the circumstances. She glanced around the entryway. "You have made a mess, haven't you? I'm sure you weren't planning on cleaning up either. Typical."

"But you're a mundane," Jace said, finally finishing his sentence.

"So observant," said Dorothea, her eyes gleaming. "The Clave really broke the mold with you."

The bewilderment on Jace's face was fading, replaced by a dawning anger. "You know about the Clave?" he demanded. "You knew about them, and you knew there were Forsaken in this house, and you didn't notify them? Just the existence of Forsaken is a crime against the Covenant—"

"Neither Clave nor Covenant have ever done anything for me," said Madame Dorothea, her eyes flashing angrily. "I owe them nothing." For a moment her gravelly New York accent vanished, replaced with something else, a thicker, deeper accent that Simon didn't recognize. It made him shiver.

"Jace, stop it," Simon said, reaching out to touch the Shadowhunter's elbow. He pulled away immediately. He turned to Madame Dorothea. "If you know about the Clave and the Forsaken," he said, "then maybe you know what happened to my mother?"

Dorothea shook her head, her earrings swinging. There was something like pity on her face. "My advice to you," she said, "is to forget about your mother. She's gone."

The floor under Simon seemed to tilt. "You mean she's dead?" _This couldn't be happening. This can't be happening_.

"No." Dorothea spoke the word almost reluctantly. "I'm sure she's still alive. For now."

"Then I have to find her," Simon said with conviction. The world had stopped tilting; Jace now had a hand on his elbow as if to brace her, but he barely noticed. "You understand? I have to find her before—"

Madame Dorothea held up a hand. "I don't want to involve myself in Shadowhunter business."

"But you knew my mother. She was your neighbor—"

"This is an official Clave investigation." Jace cut him off. "I can always come back with the Silent Brothers."

"Oh, for the—" Dorothea glanced at her door, then at Jace and Simon. "I suppose you might as well come in," she said, finally. "I'll tell you what I can." She started toward the door, then halted on the threshold, glaring. "But if you tell anyone I helped you, Shadowhunter, you'll wake up tomorrow with snakes for hair and an extra pair of arms."

"That might be nice, an extra pair of arms," Jace said. "Handy in a fight."

"Not if they're growing out of your…" Dorothea paused and smiled at him, not without malice. "Neck."

"Yikes," said Jace mildly.

"Yikes is right, _Jace Wayland_." Dorothea marched into the apartment, her purple tent flying around her like a gaudy flag.

"Wayland?"

"It's my name." Jace looked shaken. "I can't say I like that she knows it."

"Lightwood, Starkweather, Wayland—it's like your ancestors took two random words and mashed them together into family names. Let me guess, there's _Watchfruit, Beartide, Bottletree_ —"

"Shut up," Jace said flatly, and Simon laughed, for the first time in what felt like ages. That was what it must feel, killing for the first time.

He had to get over this.

He was pretty sure this wasn't going to be the last. It wasn't a very comforting thought.

Simon glanced after Dorothea. The lights were on inside the apartment; already the heavy smell of incense was flooding the entryway, mixing unpleasantly with the stench of blood. "Still, I think we might as well try talking to her. What have we got to lose?"

"Once you've spent a bit more time in our world," Jace said, "you won't ask me that again."

 

**..--..**


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey i'm back with a better edited chapter

 

Madame Dorothea's apartment seemed to have roughly the same layout as Simon's, though she'd made a very different use of the space. The entryway, reeking of incense, was hung with bead curtains and astrological posters. One showed the constellations of the zodiac, another a guide to Chinese magical symbols, and another showed a hand with fingers spread, each line on the palm carefully labeled. Above the hand Latinate script spelled out the words "In Manibus Fortuna." Narrow shelves holding stacked books ran along the wall beside the door—books that intrigued Simon, but not enough to reach out to touch.

One of the bead curtains rattled, and Madame Dorothea poked her head through. "Interested in chiromancy?" she said, noting Simon's gaze. "Or just nosy?"

"Neither," Simon said, "Though I have been told I have a great inclination for divination." He paused. "Or was that Dean? I could be the Chosen One. You know, I should. So no, not really." He frowned. "Can you really tell fortunes?"

"My mother had a great talent. She could see a man's future in his hand or the leaves at the bottom of his teacup. She taught me some of her tricks. Your silly little books actually got their Divination correct." She transferred her gaze to Jace. "Speaking of tea, young man, would you like some?"

"What?" Jace said, looking flustered.

Simon hummed. “So I could be the Chosen One? Or should I die my hair red and be the ginger sidekick?”

Dorothea looked Simon over, her eyes narrowing at his head, as if she really was contemplating how he’d look with red hair. She tapped her chin with a finger, the nail painted matte black. “I’d say the Chosen One vibe suits handsome Dean better, but I don’t think red suits _you_.”

“Hello?” Jace said, trying to catch their attention.

"Tea,” Dorothea said, gesturing to him with her hand, “I find it both settles the stomach and concentrates the mind. Wonderful drink, tea."

Simon snorted. "Yes Jace," he said, "tea. You know, an infusion of leaves in hot water—"

Jace rolled his eyes but succumbed. "All right. As long as it isn't Earl Grey," he added, wrinkling his fine-boned nose. "I hate bergamot."

"I'll have tea, too, please." As an afterthought, he added, “I agree. I put on a red wig for Charlie’s cosplay thing once.” He shook his head. “Red is _awful_ on me.”

Madame Dorothea cackled loudly and disappeared back through the bead curtain, leaving it swaying gently behind her.

Simon looked at Jace, finally. "You hate bergamot?"

Jace had wandered over to the narrow bookshelf and was examining its contents. "You have a problem with that?"

"You may be the only guy my age I've ever met who knows what bergamot is, much less that it's in Earl Grey tea."

"Yes, well," Jace said, with a supercilious look, "I'm not like other guys. Besides," he added, flipping a book off the shelf, "at the Institute we have to take classes in basic medicinal uses for plants. It's required. I am also a civilized human being."

"You're British," Simon said, rolling his eyes at him. "That's why you know all about tea." He looked at Jace again, inspiration striking him suddenly. "Do you know where we put our tea?"

"Shut up, Simon," Jace said with his own roll of eyes. "You knew all about bergamot and Earl Grey. Are you judging me?"

Well... not anymore. He decided to change the subject. "I figured all your classes were stuff like Slaughter 101 and Beheading for Beginners. Or maybe How To Put Someone Under Duress: An Introduction."

Jace flipped a page. "Very funny, Fray."

 _I agree,_ Simon thought wryly, as he studied palmistry posters. He whirled on Jace. "Please don't call me that."

He glanced up, surprised. "Why not? It's your last name, isn't it?"

"Well it is," he said patiently, "but usually we only allow people we actually like to call us by our last names." He looked from Jace to the trinkets on the shelf he was facing. The image of his friends—Charlie, Clary, Dean—rose in his mind, and he decided, he will have to call them as soon as he possibly could.

"I see," Jace said, "and why, pray tell, don't you like me?"

"Oh my god, Jace." Simon groaned, curling his hands at Jace in frustration. "The first time I ever saw you, you killed someone. And you insulted me, over and over. The next time I saw you, you threatened to kidnap me and my friend! That's—" he paused, looking for a possible word, any possible word to explain how he felt. _Stupid. Inhumane. Cruel._ He couldn't find it. "—uncool," he finally finished lamely.

Jace was looking at him, frowning. "Mundanes are strange," he finally said. Simon heard him drop the book back onto the shelf. "This must be the trash she keeps up front to impress credible mundanes," he said, sounding disgusted. "There's not one serious text here."

Simon rolled his eyes, but he was grateful for the change in subject. "Just because it's not the kind of magic you do—" Simon began crossly.

He scowled furiously, silencing him. "I do not do magic," he said. "Get it through your head: Human beings are not magic users. It's part of what makes them human. Witches and warlocks can only use magic because they have demon blood."

"There are humans who can purposefully manipulate the energies around them and use it in many ways," Simon countered, stepping closer to Jace, who was glaring at him. "Isn't that magic? And I've seen you use magic. You use enchanted weapons—"

"I use tools that are magical. And just to be able to do that, I have to undergo rigorous training. The rune tattoos on my skin protect me too. If you tried to use one of the seraph blades, for instance, it'd probably burn your skin, maybe kill you."

A thought occurred to Simon, almost immediately making him forget his own argument. "What if I got the tattoos?" he asked. "Could I use them then?"

"No," Jace said crossly. "The Marks are only part of it. There are tests, ordeals, levels of training—look, just forget it, okay? Stay away from my blades. In fact, don't touch any of my weapons without my permission."

"Well, there goes my plan for trading them at Toy Con," Simon muttered. "I'm sure I would have gotten so much better things for them."

"Trading them on what?"

Simon smiled blandly at him. "A mythical place of great magical power. We have little talking animals and more mythical beings."

Jace looked confused, then shrugged. "Most myths are true, at least in part."

"I'm starting to get that." _I’m getting that faster than I want to._

The bead curtain rattled again, and Madame Dorothea's head appeared. "Tea's on the table," she said. "There's no need for you two to keep standing there like donkeys. Come into the parlor."

"I'll just leave my hat with the footman," said Jace.

Simon rolled his eyes (they're going to fall off by the end of the day, he was sure) and Madame Dorothea shot him a dark look. "If you were half as funny as you thought you were, my boy, you'd be twice as funny as you are." She disappeared back through the curtain, her loud "Hmph!" nearly drowned out by rattling beads.

Jace frowned. "I'm not quite sure what she meant by that."

"Really," said Simon. "It made perfect sense to me." He marched through the bead curtain before Jace could reply. He couldn’t trust himself not to hurl a salty—or, at least, an insulting—response that Jace would somehow be able to turn on him.

The parlor was so dimly lit that it took several blinks for Simon's eyes to adjust. Faint light outlined the black velvet curtains drawn across the entire left wall. Stuffed birds and bats dangled from the ceiling on thin cords, shiny dark beads where their eyes should have been. He shuddered at the sight, the animal lover in him that Luke had cultivated almost crying out. The floor was layered with frayed Persian rugs that spat up puffs of dust underfoot. A group of overstuffed pink armchairs were gathered around a low table: A stack of tarot cards bound with a silk ribbon occupied one end of the table, a crystal ball on a gold stand the other. In the middle of the table was a silver tea service, laid out for company: a neat plate of stacked sandwiches, a blue teapot unfurling a thin stream of white smoke, and two teacups on matching saucers set carefully in front of two of the armchairs.

"Wow," Simon said weakly. "This looks great." He tried his best not to look sarcastic, because if he was honest, he didn't know if he thought so or not. He took a seat in one of the armchairs. It felt good to sit down.

Dorothea smiled, her eyes glinting with a sly humor. "Have some tea," she said, hefting the pot. "Milk? Sugar?"

Simon looked sideways at Jace, who was sitting beside him and who had taken possession of the sandwich plate. He was examining it closely. "Sugar," he said.

Jace shrugged, took a sandwich, and set the plate down. Simon watched him warily as he bit into it. He shrugged again. "Cucumber," he said, in response to his stare.

"I always think cucumber sandwiches are just the thing for tea, don't you?" Madame Dorothea inquired, of no one in particular.

"It's refreshing," Simon agreed. _At least they aren’t carrots._

"I hate cucumber," Jace said, and handed the rest of his sandwich to Simon. He bit into it—it was seasoned with just the right amount of mayonnaise and pepper. His stomach rumbled in grateful appreciation of the first food he'd tasted since lunch with Charlie. Three days ago. That was unhealthy. A sudden longing for greasy lunch, a noisy table, and mini-food fights makes its way down Simon’s throat to settle in his stomach with his food. He tried to shake it off.

"Cucumber and bergamot," Simon said. "Is there anything else you hate that I ought to know about?"

Jace looked at Dorothea over the rim of his teacup. "Liars," he said.

Calmly the old woman set her teapot down. "You can call me a liar all you like. It's true, I'm not a witch. But my mother was."

Jace choked on his tea. "That's impossible."

"Why impossible?" Simon asked curiously. He took a sip of her tea. It was bitter, strongly flavored with a peaty smokiness, the same mix of flavors that had him favoring coffee over tea anytime. He took another sandwich from the plate. He planned on eating all of them. It might be the last he’ll see of food in a while.

Jace expelled a breath. "Because they're half-human, half-demon. All witches and warlocks are crossbreeds. And because they're crossbreeds, they can't have children. They're sterile."

"Like mules," Simon said thoughtfully, remembering something from biology class. "Mules are sterile crossbreeds." He swallowed the last of his second sandwich and found himself not losing interest in food, or the topic. _Weird_ , he thought. _I was always queasy about this in school._

"Your knowledge of livestock is astounding," said Jace. "All Downworlders are in some part demon, but only warlocks are the children of demon parents. It's why their powers are the strongest."

"Vampires and werewolves—they're part demon too? And faeries?"

"Vampires and werewolves are the result of diseases brought by demons from their home dimensions. Most demon diseases are deadly to humans, but in these cases they worked strange changes on the infected, without actually killing them. And faeries—"

"Faeries are fallen angels," said Dorothea, "cast down out of heaven for their pride."

"That's the legend," Jace said. "It's also said that they're the offspring of demons and angels, which always seemed more likely to me. Good and evil, mixing together. Faeries are as beautiful as angels are supposed to be, but they have a lot of mischief and cruelty in them. And you'll notice most of them avoid midday sunlight—"

"For the devil has no power," said Dorothea softly, as if she were reciting an old rhyme, "except in the dark."

Jace scowled at her. Simon frowned at the exchange, but his thoughts turned to one thing on Jace's statement. "Angels," he began. “Aren’t _you_ part angel? Shouldn’t you be considered faeries?”

Jace opened his mouth to rebuke Simon’s statement, but Dorothea interrupted his would-have-been rant. _Thank lord._

"Enough about angels," she said, suddenly practical, voice detached. "It's true that warlocks can't have children. My mother adopted me because she wanted to make sure there'd be someone to attend this place after she was gone. I don't have to master magic myself. I have only to watch and guard."

"Guard what?" asked Simon.

"What indeed?" With a wink the older woman reached for a sandwich from the plate, but it was empty. Simon had already eaten them all. It was a victory. Dorothea chuckled.

Simon set his teacup down.

Instantly, Madame Dorothea pounced on the cup and stared into it intently, a line appearing between her penciled eyebrows.

"What?" Simon said nervously. "Am I going to suffer?"

"She's reading your tea leaves," Jace said, sounding bored, but he leaned forward along with Simon as Dorothea turned the cup around and around in her thick fingers, scowling.

Simon ignored him. "Am I going to be happy about it?"

There was silence.

"Is it bad?" Simon squeaked.

"It is neither bad nor good. It is confusing." Dorothea looked at Jace. "Give me your cup," she commanded.

Jace looked affronted. "But I'm not done with my—"

The old woman snatched the cup out of his hand and splashed the excess tea back into the pot. Frowning, she gazed at what remained. "I see violence in your future, a great deal of blood shed by you and others. You'll fall in love with the wrong person. Also, you have an enemy."

"Only one? That's good news." Jace leaned back in his chair as Dorothea put down his cup and picked up Simon's again. She shook her head.

"There is nothing for me to read here. The images are jumbled, meaningless." She glanced at Simon. "Is there a block in your mind?"

Simon was puzzled. "A what?"

"Like a spell that might conceal a memory, or might have blocked out your Sight."

Jace leaned forward alertly. "There could be," he said before Simon could deny or agree with Dorothea. "It's true that he claims not to remember ever having had the Sight before this week. Maybe—"

"Maybe I'm just a late developer," Simon snapped. "And don't leer at me, just because I said that."

Jace assumed an injured air. "I wasn't going to."

"You were working up to a leer, I could tell."

"Maybe," Jace acknowledged, "but that doesn't mean I'm not right. Something's blocking your memories, I'm almost sure of it."

"Very well, let's try something else." Dorothea put the cup down, and reached for the silk-wrapped tarot cards. She fanned the cards and held them out to Simon. "Slide your hand over these until you touch one that feels hot or cold, or seems to cling to your fingers. Then draw that one and show it to me."

Simon hesitated. This didn't work out the first time, but what if it doesn't work the second?

 _Third time's the charm,_ a voice that sounded very much like Charlie sing songed in his ear.

He ran his fingers over the cards. They felt cool to the touch, and slippery, but there was one card he thought he would have chosen if he had to pick at random. He picked it up and showed it to Dorothea.

"The Ace of Cups," she said, sounding bemused. "The love card." He tried not to scowl.

Simon turned it over and looked at it. The card was heavy in his hand, the image on the front thick with real paint. It showed a hand holding up a cup in front of a rayed sun painted with gilt. The cup was made of gold, engraved with a pattern of smaller suns and studded with rubies. The style of the artwork was as familiar to his as his own breath. "This is a good card, right?"

"Not necessarily. The most terrible things men do, they do in the name of love," said Madame Dorothea, her eyes gleaming. "But it is a powerful card. What does it mean to you?"

"In the name of love, not because of love itself," Simon muttered. He gulped. "My mother painted this, didn't she?"

Dorothea nodded, a look of pleased satisfaction on her face. "She painted the whole pack. A gift for me."

"So you say." Jace stood up, his eyes cold. "How well did you know Simon's mother?"

Simon craned his head to look up at him. "Jace, you don't have to—"

Dorothea sat back in her chair, the cards fanned out across her wide chest. "Jocelyn knew what I was, and I knew what she was. We didn't talk about it much. Sometimes she did favors for me—like painting this pack of cards—and in return I'd tell her the occasional piece of Downworld gossip. There was a name she asked me to keep an ear out for, and I did."

Jace's expression was unreadable. "What name was that?"

" _Valentine_."

Simon sat up in his chair.

"And when you say you knew what Jocelyn was, what do you mean? What was she?" Jace asked.

"Jocelyn was what she was," said Dorothea. "But in her past she'd been like you. A Shadowhunter. One of the Clave."

Simon blinked, feeling the world tilting under him once more. He was thankful he was seated, this time, but even so he still felt as if he was falling, as if the floor had been ripped out from under his feet.

Dorothea looked at him with sad, almost kindly eyes. "It's true. She chose to live in this house precisely because—"

"Because this is a Sanctuary." Jace said to Dorothea. "Isn't it? Your mother was a Control. She made this space, hidden, protected—it's a perfect spot for Downworlders on the run to hide out. That's what you do, isn't it? You hide criminals here."

"You would call them that," Dorothea said. "You're familiar with the motto of the Covenant?"

" _Sed lex dura lex_ ," said Jace automatically. "The Law is hard, but it is the Law."

"Isn't that harsh?" Simon asked to no one in particular. He felt as if he was floating, like this was just a lucid dream—and he prayed that it was, because he didn't think he could handle more of this. He didn't want to.

"Sometimes the Law is too hard," said Dorothea, glancing at Simon. "I know the Clave would have taken me away from my mother if they could. You want me to let them do the same to others?"

"So you're a philanthropist." Jace's lip curled. "I suppose you expect me to believe that Downworlders don't pay you handsomely for the privilege of your Sanctuary?"

Dorothea grinned, wide enough to show a flash of gold molars. "We can't all get by on our looks like you."

Jace looked unmoved by the flattery. "I should tell the Clave about you—"

"You won't," Simon said. He felt... empty. Like there was nothing left in him—no fight, no energy, no feelings. "You're not telling the Clave anything. This place is going to stay a safe place.” He shook his head. “We're—we're going."

He tried to stand, but he was woozy on his feet. Jace caught his arm and kept him standing. "Are you alright?"

"I just found out everything I am was a lie," Simon told him flatly, looking at him straight on. "How would you have felt?"

Jace was silent, but he guided Simon back to his chair and let him sit. He strode to the wall and tapped one of the velvet hangings. He seemed to have finally calmed down enough to act civilly. "You want to tell me what this is?" he asked.

"It's a door, Jace," said Simon. It was a door, set strangely in the wall between the two bay windows. Clearly it couldn't be a door that led anywhere, or it would have been visible from the outside of the house. It looked as if it were made of some softly glowing metal, more buttery than brass but as heavy as iron. The knob had been cast in the shape of an eye.

"It's a Portal. Isn't it?"

"It's a multi-dimensional door," said Dorothea, laying the tarot cards back on the table. "Dimensions aren't all straight lines, you know," she added, in response to Simon's blank look. In any other circumstance, he would have jumped in excitement, talking a mile a minute about everything he has ever watched and played and read. This wasn't any other circumstance. "There are dips and folds and nooks and crannies all tucked away. There are layers, vacuums, long lines that met and brushed shoulders, some that even overlap. It's a bit hard to explain when you've never studied dimensional theory, but, in essence, that door can take you anywhere in this dimension that you want to go. It's—"

"An escape hatch," Jace said. "That's why your mother wanted to live here. So she could always flee at a moment's notice."

"Then why didn't she _go_?" Simon asked, looking at Dorothea. "That day, why didn't she leave?"

"She wasn't going to leave you," she answered almost gently.

 _She wasn't going to leave me here,_ Simon thought slowly, _and I told her I was going home after lunch._

Jace was shaking his head, already moving to reach out to Simon. "You can't blame yourself." _Too late._

Simon stood, finally more stable on his two legs than he was a few minutes ago, now that he had a drive, a purpose. "I want to see where she would have gone," he said, pushing past Jace and reaching for the door. "I want to see where she was going to escape to—"

"Simon!" Jace yelled. He reached out, but Simon's fingers had already closed around the knob. It spun rapidly under his hand, the door flying open as if he'd pushed it. Dorothea lumbered to her feet with a cry, but it was too late. Before she could even finish her sentence, Simon found himself flung forward and tumbling through empty space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ come talk to me pls ](http://ehre-wahrheit.tumblr.com)


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm writing the next few chapters as i'm editing this and it's turning into a Mess. this wasn't the prompt fill i started it out as, and as such, i shall be editing the story description in a bit. i might write the actual prompt, or i might just post it as is once i've written the chapter out as a separate Dean-centric work.
> 
> a/n: CHARLIE U AMAZING LIL BUN <3

Simon was too surprised to scream. The sensation of falling was the worst part; his heart flew up into his throat and his stomach turned to water. He remembered riding a rollercoaster for the first time—the wind whipping his hair, gravity trying to pull him off his seat as the death machine looped and whirled at a thousand miles per minute. This felt _just_ like that, only different, _worse_. His brain hurt, as if it was being squeezed through a tube and was draining out of his ears. His limbs felt too numb. It was as if all his blood was rising up, to his head, and out of his nose. He tried to move his fingers, his arm, to try to see if he really was dying, if his organs were slowly being funneled through random orifices on his face. He tried to catch at something, anything that might slow his descent.

His hands closed on branches. Leaves tore off in his grip. He thumped to the ground, hard, his hip and shoulder striking packed earth. He rolled over, sucking the air back into his lungs. He was just beginning to sit up when someone landed on top of him, knocking the breath out of his lungs again.

" _Geez_ ," he managed to say, before he was knocked backward. A forehead banged against his, his knees banging against someone else's. Tangled up in arms and legs, Simon coughed hair ( _not_ his own, it was disgusting) out of his mouth and tried to struggle out from under the weight that felt like it was crushing him flat.

"Ouch," Jace said in his ear, his tone indignant. "You elbowed me."

"I did not sign up to taste your hair," Simon answered, "you don't get to sign up to feel my elbow."

"What," Jace said.

"You landed on me!"

He levered himself up on his arms and looked down at him placidly. Simon could see blue sky above his head, a bit of tree branch, and the corner of a gray clapboard house. "Well, you didn't leave me much choice, did you?" he asked. "Not after you decided to leap merrily through that Portal like you were jumping the F train. You're just lucky it didn't dump us out in the East River."

Simon rolled his eyes. "I wish it _did_ dump you in the East River," he muttered. “And you know, you didn't have to come after me. Why _did_ you?"

"Yes, I did," he said. "You're far too inexperienced to protect yourself in a hostile situation without me."

 _I killed a Forsaken. An injured one, but I killed it nonetheless. I can take care of myself_. “I didn’t _ask_ you to look after me. Don’t act like some pompous prick.” He knew it was a lie, though—if he was faced by one of those—those Raveners, he didn't know what would happen. He would probably freeze and simply stare at it until it was right at his feet. "That's sweet," he said lamely.

"I _am_ well known to be sweet at times."

Simon snorted. "Yeah, and completely, irritatingly rude the rest of the time."

His eyes narrowed. "I am not!" His expression turned thoughtful. “Well, when you think about it—"

"Never mind," he interrupted. His arm, pinned under his back, was beginning to cramp. Rolling to the side to free it, he saw the brown grass of a dead lawn, a chain-link fence, and more of the gray clapboard house, now distressingly familiar.

He froze. "I know where we are."

Jace stopped spluttering. "What?"

Simon dropped to his arms, highly conscious that Jace was basically still pinning him to the ground. He rolled over, so he was facing Jace, and sat up, pitching him to the side. "This is Luke's house," he said, as Jace rolled gracefully to his feet and held out a hand to help him up. He took his hand gratefully, still feeling as if his legs were made of Jell-o, and began shaking out his numb arm.

They stood in front of a small gray row house, nestled among the other row houses that lined the Williamsburg waterfront. A breeze blew off the East River, setting a small sign swinging over the brick front steps. Simon watched Jace as he read the block-lettered words aloud, "Garroway Books. Fine Used, New, and Out-of-Print. Closed Saturdays." He glanced at the dark front door, its knob wound with a heavy padlock. A few days' worth of mail lay on the doormat, untouched. He glanced at Simon. "He lives in a bookstore?"

"He lives behind the store." Simon glanced up and down the empty street, which was bordered on one end by the arched span of the Williamsburg Bridge, and by a deserted sugar factory on the other. Across the sluggishly moving river the sun was setting behind the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan, outlining them in gold. "Jace, how did we get here?"

"Through the Portal," Jace said, examining the padlock. "It takes you to whatever place you're thinking of."

"But I wasn't thinking of here," Simon objected. "I wasn't thinking of anywhere." After the conversation on the phone with Luke, Simon didn't think he was ever going to be capable of thinking of coming here as 'safe'. It made a hot, stinging sensation to twist up his stomach, but he pushed his tears back and took a deep breath.

"You must have been." He dropped the subject, seeming uninterested. Simon couldn't say he wasn't thankful. "So, since we're here anyway…"

"Yeah?"

"What do you want to do?"

"Leave, I guess," Simon said bitterly. "Luke told me not to come here." _So much for ignoring it, Fray. You're an idiot_.

Jace shook his head. "And you just accept that?"

"I could call Clary," he said weakly. "Or Charlie. Or Dean. I don't—" Simon hugged his arms to himself. It was summer. But he felt cold. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

He hated this. He hated feeling vulnerable. He hated that he brought himself—or something brought him—to the one place he wasn't welcome to find sanctuary in. Why didn't he think of contacting his friends earlier? Why was Luke the first in his mind?

He shook his head.

"We always have choices," Jace said, almost gently.. "If I were you, I'd be pretty curious about Luke right now. Do you have keys to the house?" Simon frowned at him.

"Are we going to break into Luke's _house_?" he asked.

"If you had a key, we wouldn't have to break in, would we?"

Simon rolled his eyes and shook his head in exasperation. _Shadowhunters._ "No, but sometimes he leaves the back door unlocked." He pointed to the narrow alley between Luke's row house and the next. Plastic trash cans were propped in a neat row beside stacks of folded newspapers and a plastic tub of empty soda bottles. At least Luke was still a responsible recycler.

"You sure he isn't home?" Jace asked.

"No." He glanced at the empty curb. "Well, his truck's gone, the store's closed, and all the lights are off. I'd say probably not."

"Then lead the way."

The narrow aisle between the row houses ended in a high chain-link fence. It surrounded Luke's small back garden, where the only plants flourishing seemed to be the weeds that had sprung up through the paving stones, cracking them into powdery shards.

"Up and over," Jace said, jamming the toe of a boot into a gap in the fence. He began to climb. The fence rattled so loudly that Simon glanced around nervously, but there were no lights on in the neighbors' house. Jace cleared the top of the fence and sprang down the other side, landing in the bushes to the accompaniment of an earsplitting yowl.

For a moment Simon thought Jace must have landed on a stray cat. He heard Jace shout in surprise as he fell backward. A dark shadow—much too big to be feline—exploded out of the shrubbery and streaked across the yard, keeping low. Rolling to his feet, Jace darted after it, looking murderous.

Simon cursed under his breath—apologized—and started to climb. As he threw his leg over the top of the fence, Alec's jeans caught on a twist of wire and tore up the side. He wished he had gone back to the apartment and took at least a change of clothes. He dropped to the ground, shoes scuffing the soft dirt, just as Jace cried out in triumph. "Got her!" Simon turned to see Jace sitting on top of the prone intruder, whose arms were up over her—Simon was pretty sure it was a _her_ —head. Jace grabbed for her wrist. "Come on, let's see your face—"

"Get the hell off me, you pretentious asshole," the intruder snarled, shoving at Jace. She struggled halfway into a sitting position, her shirt askew as she glared at Jace.

"Who are you?" Of course. Of course it had to be her, nobody else but Charlie Bradbury. Her fiery red hair looked like fire in the early evening sunlight, pale skin looking unhealthy as she struggled under Jace's weight. Her eyes were murderous, but there were dark circles under them. She didn't look like she'd gotten any sleep.

Simon stopped dead in his tracks and stared. " _Charlie_?"

"Oh, God," said Jace, sounding resigned. "And here I'd actually hoped I'd got hold of something interesting."

"I _am_ interesting," Charlie said primly. " _Clary_!"

There was silence, but soon enough Jace was cursing as someone barreled into him from behind, pushing him off of Charlie. She sat up quickly, causing Jace to pitch forward and fall on his chest. Clary was sitting on his back, holding on to one of his wrists. She looked excited. Charlie was laughing as she sat on Jace's legs.

He's gotta admit, it was a funny and impressive sight, probably something that will make the headlines over at Shadowhunter home country. ' _Pretentious Asshole Shadowhunter, beaten at his own game by two lady mundanes_ '. He'd read that, but... "But what were you doing hiding in Luke's bushes?" Simon asked, walking forward until he could reach up to brush leaves out of Clary's hair. She suffered his ministrations with glaring bad grace, and he would've told her it was okay to leave Jace be but... It was too funny to pass up.

"Simon," Jace sputtered, and Simon looked down at him. " _What. Is. Happening_."

Simon laughed.

Somehow when he'd pictured his reunion with his friends, when all this was over, they'd all be in a better mood, in a better headspace. Apparently he was wrong, and his friends were now _ninjas_ good enough to bring down a Shadowhunter. "That's the part I don't get, either," Simon told Jace, but his face turned serious. "Seriously, guys, why _are_ you here?"

"All right, that's enough. I can fix my own hair, Fray," Clary said, jerking away from his touch. Her movement caused her to move back from Jace enough for him to twist his hip and kick out. Charlie cried out as she fell, and Clary squeaked as Jace jumped up until she was under him.

If looks could kill, Jace would have to dig up three graves. He looked that murderous.

"Come on, then," Simon said, helping Clary up and then going to Charlie. "You two still haven't answered my question."

He led the three of them to the steps of Luke's back porch, waiting until they were settled before taking a seat himself. Jace propped himself on the porch railing and was assiduously pretending to ignore them, while using the stele to file the edges of his fingernails. Simon wondered if the Clave would approve.

 _Probably_ , he thought absently, _they_ are _judgmental assholes_.

"I mean, did Luke know you were there?" he asked, looking at Clary and then at Charlie. They were quiet the whole of the way here, but now it was time for answers.

"Of course he didn't know we were there," Clary said irritably, sending randomly timed glares at Jace. "I've never asked him, but I'm sure he has a fairly stringent policy about random teenagers lurking in his shrubbery."

"But you're not random. He knows you." He glanced at Jace. He wanted to reach out and touch Clary's cheek, still bleeding slightly where a branch had scratched it. "The main thing is that you're all right."

There was silence, and then Charlie snorted. "That we're all right?" Clary laughed, a sharp, unhappy sound. "Do you have any idea what I've been through this past couple of days? The last time I saw you, you were running out of Java Jones like a bat out of hell, and then you just… disappeared. You never picked up your cell—then your home phone was disconnected—then Luke told me you were off staying with some relatives upstate when I know you don't have any other relatives. I thought I'd done something to piss you off."

"That's not even the weird shit yet," Charlie muttered on the side, staring off into the lawn.

"What could you possibly have done?" Simon asked. "And what's the weird—shit?"

"I don't know," Clary said quietly. "Something."

Jace, still occupied with the stele, chuckled low under his breath.

"Shut up, Jace," Simon said sharply. "Charlie, Clary—you're. You're two of my best friends. I wasn't—I can't even get mad at you. What gave you this idea?"

"Yeah, well, you clearly also couldn't be bothered to call us and tell us you were still alive, did you?" Clary pointed out with a glare. She took a deep breath and exchanged these glances with Charlie that was making him nervous. "So what have you been doing these past three days, then?" she asked, her tone light. Too... light.

Simon stared at her. She was lying. She had her tells, and lip-biting was one of them. _What was she lying about_?

"Luke said you had gone to visit a sick relative, and that your phone probably just didn't work out in the country," she continued to say, though Simon's brain was still stuck on the fact that Clary Lewis, who never lied in his face, was lying to him. "Not that we believed him. After he shooed me off his front porch, I went around the side of the house and looked in the back window. Watched him packing up a green duffel bag like he was going away for the weekend. That was when I decided to stick around and keep an eye on things."

"Why?" Simon asked. "Because he was packing a bag?"

Charlie sighed. "Look, Simon, there are—we've found out some... things, okay? We don't know how sure we are about one of our theories, and we're waiting for Dean to come back from an out of town trip with Sam. There's something happening, here, and I don't think we're going to be comfortable just turning blind—" she looked to Jace "—eyes."

Jace tensed, but he didn't go for the bait, whatever Charlie was baiting him for.

"Besides," Clary interjected, "he was packing it full of weapons." She began scrubbing at the blood on her cheek with the sleeve of her T-shirt. "Knives, a couple daggers, even a sword. Funny thing is, some of the weapons looked like they were glowing." She looked from Simon to Jace, and back again. Her tone was edged as sharply as one of Luke's knives. "Now, are you going to say I was imagining it?"

"They can't," Charlie said lightly, standing up and pulling her phone out of her pocket. "Dean's back in town. I'm telling him where we are."

"What do you mean we can't?" Simon said. This was getting more and more confusing the longer he tried to figure it out. "And no, of course I'm not going to say that." He glanced at Jace. The last light of sunset struck gold sparks from his eyes. He said, "I'm going to tell them the truth."

"I know."

"Are you going to try to stop me?"

He looked down at the stele in his hand. "My oath to the Covenant binds me," he said. "No such oath binds you." He looked up and met his eyes. "I don't know what truth you need to tell them that they haven't found yet, but I wish you the best of luck."

He started. Back in Pandemonium, Clary couldn't see him. But now... now Jace was right, they seemed to know more than they were letting on, and he didn't know who could have told them. He turned back to the girls, taking a deep breath. "All right," he said. "Here's what you have to know."

Before he could speak, though, there was a loud crash and then some cursing. He sighed in relief, feeling the tension in his back flow out. Dean came bounding to where they were, staring at Simon before looking up at Jace, and then reaching out to give the girls a hug.

"So," he drawled, "why don't we get this war council over and done with."

Simon took a deep breath and gulping, began talking. The sun had slipped entirely past the horizon, and the porch was in darkness by the time Simon stopped speaking. Clary, Charlie and Dean had listened to his lengthy explanation with a nearly impassive expression, only wincing a little when he got to the part about the Ravener demon. When he was done speaking, he cleared his dry throat, suddenly dying for a glass of water. "So," he said, "any questions?"

"So you're saying," Charlie said slowly, turning to look at Dean, "there were two demons that night. That... thing. And the one you killed."

"One was from Hell," Dean answered with a scrunched eyebrow, "and the other was a dimensional." He looked at Simon, scrutinizing him as if he wasn't the one who had just blurted out something about demons and dimensional and Hell. "At least that explains one of the flairs those bastards in monkey suits were talking about."

Simon blinked, confused, before looking up at Jace for an explanation. He was twirling his stele between his fingers, eyes locked on Dean. "You've got one more friend to explain to, Mr. Winchester," he said, raising an eyebrow. He cocked his head to Simon, who gulped nervously and looked at Dean.

Dean looked strange in the evening. He was pale, with dark circles under his eyes, and his shirt was dirty. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and he didn't look like the Dean Simon had known before this whole thing. He sighed and opened his mouth, and began talking.

He talked about groups of people and demons and dimensionals; he mentioned errant Downworlders and the Accords and a White Book; he mentioned training and initiation and having to learn how to manipulate everything he could put his hands on as resources because that was the mark of a true Letter. He mentioned something about going out of town to take Sam to his first Hunt. He said something about having to do it in a few years for Adam, too, because it was a family business.

“For the second time today,” he croaked, “I am going to say: Saving people, hunting things, family business.” He cleared his throat. “Anyone got a cup of water?”

Simon didn’t know how he was going to process everything he had just learned. Just this afternoon he found out that he wasn’t who he thought he was. Now he was finding out that his best _friend_ wasn’t who he thought he was. He looked at Charlie and Clary. “Let me guess,” he said flatly, “you’re a spy and you’re an assassin.”

Charlie grinned faintly at him. “It’s called lesbionage, if I’m not mistaken,” she said primly, nodding at the sound of her own pun.

Clary laughed. “I’m a Jewish mercenary,” she said, shaking her head and sighing. “No, fortunately it’s just you and Dean who aren’t as human as we thought.”

Simon squinted. “’Aren’t as human’?”

“Normal,” Clary settled on. “Anyway, do you have any questions? It might be better if we could settle this before we go our separate ways again.”

There was silence, but Simon held up his hand. "Oh, I've got questions. Several."

Dean exhaled warily. "Okay, shoot."

He pointed at Jace. "He's a Shadowhunter," he said. "And I'm—" he stopped. "You're—what? What do you call yourself?"

"A Hunter," Dean volunteered, "just like your Shadowhunter here. A Letter. Still, just like your little Shadowhunter."

"Not mine," Simon said. "What do you do?"

Dean looked at him flatly, but he will not stand for this. He needed to hear it from his mouth. He had to. Dean sighed. "I hunt demons, both from Hell and from other dimensions aside from this one. Also, I Hunt Downworlders who broke the terms of the Accords, or brought them to Trial in front of the Letters."

"Trial?"

"Before this whole shebang, none of us knew about each other. Jace didn't know about the Letters and the Network. The Letters didn't know about the Network. And then my parents got married, and now they have to work together or risk having the whole thing blow up in their faces." His gaze was unwavering as he stared at Simon. "And now I'm here, reconciling with Shadowhunters." He glanced at Jace. "I made a copy of the _Pactum_. I'll let Alec read it later."

"You know Alec?"

Dean frowned. "He was there when I brought you to the Institute after getting poisoned." He gulped. "I was the one who told Jace to draw his runes on you," he said softly.

And suddenly, the looks and glances back at the Institute suddenly made sense. The Shadowhunters were protecting his friend—and his friendship. They wanted it to be Dean who told him about the Mark. About—about this whole thing. It was one of the kindest things they have ever done for him in their short time of acquaintanceship. He took a deep breath and forced a grin into his face. "This is for real, right?"

"For real."

There was an intent look on Simon's face. "And there are vampires, too? Werewolves, warlocks, all that stuff?"

Dean nodded.

Simon wasn't looking at Jace, but he knew the Shadowhunter was looking at him. Was he hurt? Probably. But what could Simon do? He didn't know Jace. He knew Dean. He trusted Jace with his life but—

He froze. He trusted Jace with his life, and this was the first full day they've spent together. Was that it? Was that—

For a moment Simon merely sat and stared down at his feet. He wondered just what he had signed up for on that night in Pandemonium, when he followed two guys with knives into a storage room, when he watched one of said guys slash down with a sword he had never seen outside of videogames to kill what he would later claim as a demon, when he followed Jace to that alley three days ago. He wondered if it had been a choice he could have made; a choice he couldn't have, because it was out of his control. He didn't know how to take most of this—finding out his mom was a Shadowhunter was a big one—but just the thought of his friends being there, standing beside him... "That is so awesome," Simon finally settled on.

There was a startled silence from all of them, Simon included, because he didn't think it would come out of his mouth so—so enthusiastic. He grinned.

The silence was broken by Charlie's little giggle, who said, "I would've gotten worried if you didn't think so."

"Don't make a D&D reference," Dean warned, but just a mere moment too late—Simon had already began his sentence of, "Awesome. It's like Dungeons and Dragons, except in real life." _Also much scarier because this was real life and I'm not controlling my skills and limbs through a plastic controller_.

Jace was looking at Simon as if he were some bizarre species of insect. "It's like what?"

"It's a game," Clary explained, looking up at Jace and squinting. This was probably the first time Simon saw her ever civilly treat Jace, seeing as the first time Jace saw her she couldn't see him, and the second time, she was tackling him to the ground. She looked proud as she spoke, though. "People pretend to be wizards and elves, and they kill monsters and stuff."

Jace looked stupefied. "Why on earth would they do that?"

Clary shrugged. "We're mundanes," she said, testing out the sound of the word on her tongue. She glanced at Simon and smiled. "We don't actually have superpowers or magic to help us literally kill monsters."

"We don't use magic—"

Simon grinned. "You've never heard of Dungeons and Dragons?" he interrupted.

"I've heard of dungeons," Jace said. "Also dragons. Although they're mostly extinct."

There was an incredulous silence, before Dean broke it with, "There's one who lives here, in New York."

"What!" Simon yelled, snapping his head to Dean. " _Where?_ "

"Underground," Dean answered, raising his hands in surrender. "He's friendly, if it makes you feel any better. He doesn't kidnap virgins." He shuddered. "I had to Hunt a dragon who did, once. It was disgusting."

"It was cool though, right?"

Dean blinked at him. " _You_ would think it's cool to kill a dragon." He shook his head, but a wry smile was gracing his face. "But yeah, it was cool. A little scary, though, when you're trying to avoid their hands."

"Hands?" Clary asked. "I thought they were lizards."

" _Some_ of them can _turn_ into giant scaly lizards," Dean explained, "but most of them prefer to stay in human form. It makes for easier socialization, I guess."

"How did you kill them?" Clary asked, as if that was the pressing question. Dean looked uncomfortable, looking away from her and towards Jace, who sighed and shifted on his perch on the railing.

"According to lore, you may only kill a dragon with a sword forged in dragon blood," the Shadowhunter said in that bored, _I am better than you_ voice that made Simon want to punch him. The longer he spent with Shadowhunters, the harder it got to resist the temptation.

"The _Sword of Bruncvik_ ," Dean muttered under his breath, and by the way he tensed, it was obvious he hadn't meant to say it out loud. Or, at least, loud enough to be audible to the others’ ears.

Simon squinted at him. "Sword of what now?"

"One of the few swords forged in dragon blood," Jace answered. "Like the Excalibur. I didn't think it still existed."

Dean was quiet, but it was obvious he was thinking something along the lines of, _it exists alright_. He caught Simon looking and sighed, looking defeated. "It's being kept in the Letters Bunker, in Kansas."

"The Excalibur so—" Simon's eyes lit up in excitement as he peered at Dean, who was beginning to look more and more uncomfortable with each question about his occupation. "Did you have to pull it out of a slab of stone to prove your worth as a knight?"

"Of course not," Jace answered with a snort at the same time Dean rolled his eyes, saying, "to prove that I'm ready to kill a _dragon_ , and yes, I did."

There was silence as Simon peered at Jace with a slight sneer. _Here you go,_ he thought, _here's a mundane who has done better than you._ "Have _you_?"

Jace's face was impassive, and but his stony silence was answer enough for Simon. He felt unbelievably disappointed with the negative answer, though just a second ago he was proving with a sneer that Shadowhunters were _not_ as above others than they seem to claim themselves to be.

He shook his head. "So you've _never_ killed a dragon?"

"He's probably never met a six-foot-tall hot elf-woman in a fur bikini, either," Charlie said with cheer in her voice, eyes wide and sparkling.

"Real elves are about eight inches tall," Jace pointed out, obviously irritated over having four _mundanes_ gang up on him. "Also, they bite."

"But vampires are _hot_ , right?" Charlie said. "I mean, some of the vampires are babes, aren't they?"

Simon wondered for a moment when Jace was going to explode and lunge across the porch to throttle one of them. _Or all_. He would probably go for Dean first. Would that give them enough time to get away? _Probably not_. Instead, (much to Simon's surprise and chagrin) Jace considered the question. "Some of them, maybe."

"When they're not being awfully naughty," Dean added, nodding his head with a thoughtful look on his face.

"Awesome," Charlie repeated, giving Clary a high five. Simon decided that he preferred it when they were fighting, or at least ganging up on Jace.

Jace slid off the porch railing. "So are we going to search the house, or not?" he asked, finally getting to the heart of their—Simon's, mostly—situation. Simon had gotten comfortable where he was seated, _almost_ comfortable enough to forget his ordeal. He nodded.

Charlie nodded and stood up gracefully without looking at Jace. "I'm game. What are we looking for?"

" _We_?" said Jace, with a sinister delicacy. "I don't remember inviting you along."

"So am I," Clary said primly, looking at Jace frostily before offering him a hand to help her up. Jace simply stared at her hand for a moment before rolling his eyes and helping her... grudgingly. " _Don't rip off my arm_ ," Clary hissed, snatching her limb out of the Shadowhunter's grasp before walking to where Charlie was standing, watching the house.

"Jace," Simon said angrily, but he was tired. _Just one more_ , he thought to himself, and this blond twink was going to taste the Fray fist once more.

The left corner of his mouth curled up. "Just joking." He stepped aside to leave him a clear path to the door, sending Clary what must be a smug look before her face turned murderous. "Shall we?"

Simon fumbled for the doorknob in the dark. It opened, triggering the porch light, which illuminated the entryway. The door that led into the bookstore was closed; Simon jiggled the knob. "It's locked."

"Allow me, mundanes," said Jace, setting him gently aside. He took his stele out of his pocket and put it to the door. Simon watched him with some resentment, while Charlie and Clary watched on silently. He couldn't quite see where Dean was standing behind him.

"He's a piece of work, isn't he?" Clary muttered. "How do you stand him?"

"I _don't_. I want to punch him."

Clary snorted. Dean and Charlie—the _nerds_ —said " _Alohomora_ " at the same time as they heard a click. The door swung open.

"Here we go," said Jace, sliding his stele back into his pocket. Simon saw the Mark on the door—just over his head—fade as they passed through it. The back door opened onto a small storage room, the bare walls peeling paint. Cardboard boxes were stacked everywhere, their contents identified with marker scrawls: " _Fiction," "Poetry," "Cooking," "Local Interest," "Romance_."

"The apartment's through there." Simon headed toward the door he'd indicated, at the far end of the room.

Jace caught his arm. "Wait."

Simon looked at him nervously, and then looked around, but he could neither see nor sense anything. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know." He edged between two narrow stacks of boxes, and whistled. "Simon, you might want to come over here and see this."

He glanced around. It was dim in the storage room, the only illumination the porch light shining through the window. "It's so dark—" Light flared up, bathing the room in a brilliant glow. Simon turned his head aside, blinking. "Ouch."

Jace chuckled. He was standing on top of a sealed box, his hand raised. Something glowed in his palm, the light escaping through his cupped fingers. "Witchlight," he said.

Clary muttered something under her breath. Simon was already clambering through the boxes, but he paused to send Clary a fond look before pushing a way to Jace. He was standing behind a teetering pile of mysteries, the witch-light casting an eerie glow over his face. "Look at that," he said, indicating a space higher up on the wall.

At first Simon thought he was pointing at what looked like a pair of ornamental sconces. As his eyes adjusted, he realized they were actually loops of metal attached to short chains, the ends of which were sunk into the wall. "Are those—"

"Manacles," said Charlie, picking her way through the boxes before turning to help Clary up with an offered hand. "That's, ah…"

"Don't say 'kinky.'" Clary shot her a warning look. "This is Luke we're talking about. I don't think any of us need a mental image.”

Dean, who was the last one to try to climb up, cursed under his breath and bemoaned something along the lines of ' _why do I consider these people friends_ '.

 _Too late then_ , Simon thought, and then shuddered, trying his best to keep Luke's—"Girls, ew," he hissed at Charlie, who was giggling at her perch. She shut up when Dean finally reached them and hit her upside the head, so strong that she teetered and threatened to fall.

Dean caught her by the elbow and she hissed at him before hitting him back.

Jace ignored their antics ( _he was probably shaking his head at their_ mundanity) and instead reached up to run his hand along the inside of one of the metal loops. When he lowered it, his fingers were dusted with red-brown powder. "Blood. And look." He pointed to the wall right around where the chains were sunk in; the plaster seemed to bulge outward. "Someone tried to yank these things out of the wall. Tried pretty hard, from the looks of it."

Simon's heart had begun to beat hard inside his chest. "Do you think Luke is all right?"

"Don't you think the better question is _what on Earth is Luke doing with manacles in his_ storage _?_ " Clary hissed under her breath.

Jace lowered the witchlight. "I think we'd better find out."

The door to the apartment was unlocked. It led into Luke's living room. Despite the hundreds of books in the store itself, there were hundreds more in the apartment. Bookshelves rose to the ceiling, the volumes on them "double-parked," one row blocking another. Most were poetry and fiction, with plenty of fantasy and mystery thrown in. Simon remembered having to plow through the entirety of The Chronicles of Prydain here, after his mom tasked him to, curled up in Luke's window seat as the sun went down over the East River.

"I think he's still around," called Dean, standing in the doorway of Luke's small kitchenette. "The percolator's on and there's coffee here. Still hot."

Simon peered around the kitchen door. Dishes were stacked in the sink. Luke's jackets were hung neatly on hooks inside the coat closet. He walked down the hallway and opened the door of his small bedroom. It looked the same as ever, the bed with its gray coverlet and flat pillows unmade, the top of the bureau covered in loose change. He turned away. Some part of him had been absolutely certain that when they walked in they'd find the place torn to pieces, and Luke tied up, injured or worse. Now he didn't know what to think.

 _Maybe he wasn't a part of this_ , Simon thought. But if his mother was a Shadowhunter, what did that make Luke? Did Luke know? Was he a mundane, maybe that's why he reacted the way he did when Simon tried to reach out to him?

_Maybe he just doesn't care._

_Quiet_.

Numbly he crossed the hall to the little guest bedroom where he'd so often stayed when his mother was out of town on business. _What business_? a voice in his head now asked. They'd stay up late watching old horror movies on the flickering black-and-white TV. He even kept a backpack full of extra things here so he didn't have to lug his stuff back and forth from home.

Kneeling down, he tugged it out from under the bed by its olive green strap. It was covered with buttons, most of which Simon had collected over the years from garage sales and conventions. There were some that Charlie and Dean and Clary had given him, too. _gamers do it better, otaku wench, still not king_. Inside were some folded clothes, a few spare pairs of underwear, a hairbrush, even shampoo. Thank God, he thought, and kicked the bedroom door closed. He wondered absently if Alec would still want his shirt back, and disregarded that thought immediately.

 _He probably planned on burning it as soon as he saw it touching your skin_ , he thought to himself.

 Quickly he changed, stripping off Alec's too-big—and now grass-stained and sweaty clothes, and pulling on a pair of his own jeans, washed one too many times and soft as worn paper. He also pulled out a blue AC/DC shirt—the one he had gotten as part of a set for Clary's birthday and made Dean almost bawl in jealousy. He tossed Alec's clothes into a plastic bag he found on the table and threw it in the backpack, yanked the cord shut, and left the bedroom, the pack bouncing familiarly between his shoulder blades. It felt comforting to finally have at least a little of his own possessions on hand once more.

He found Jace in Luke's book-lined office, examining a green duffel bag that lay unzipped across the desk. It was, as Clary had said, full of weapons—sheathed knives, a coiled whip, and something that looked like a razor-edged metal disk.

"It's a _chakhram_ ," said Jace, looking up as Simon came into the room. "A Sikh weapon. You whirl it around your index finger before releasing it. They're rare and hard to use. Strange that Luke would have one. They used to be Hodge's weapon of choice, back in the day. Or so he tells me."

"Luke collects stuff. Art objects. You know," Simon said, indicating the shelf behind the desk, which was lined with bronze Indian and Russian icons. His favorite was a statuette of the Indian goddess of destruction, Kali, brandishing a sword and a severed head as she danced with her head thrown back and her eyes slitted closed. To the side of the desk was an antique Chinese screen, carved out of glowing rosewood. "Pretty things." He looked back at the pack. “He also hadn’t left. The bag’s still here.”

Dean came into the room, looking around curiously. His eyes caught on the figure of Kali, too. He blinked at it before picking it up, holding it delicately in his palms. "I met her, once," he said, his voice and tone strange, as if even he couldn't believe he was talking about this. Like this. Simon exchanged glances with Jace. "In a dream of another life." He shrugged and put Kali back on the shelf. He turned to Jace silently.

The Shadowhunter moved the chakhram aside gingerly, and Simon finally looked away from his friend. A handful of clothes spilled out of the untied end of Luke's duffel bag, as if they had been an afterthought. "I think this is yours, by the way."

He drew out a rectangular object hidden among the clothes: a wooden-framed photograph with a long vertical crack along the glass. The crack threw a network of spidery lines across the smiling faces of Simon, Luke, and his mother. "That is mine," Simon said, taking it out of his hand.

"It's cracked," Jace observed.

"No shit," Dean muttered. He had moved to one of the shelves, fingers caressing the spines of the many books, lips moving as if he was saying their names under his breath.

"I know," Simon said softly, watching Dean before looking back down at the frame. There were too many questions, too many things changing a little too fast. "I did that—I smashed it. When I threw it at the Ravener demon." He looked at him, seeing the dawning realization on his face. "That means Luke's been back to the apartment since the attack. Maybe even today—"

"He must have been the last person to come through the Portal," said Jace. "That's why it took us here. You weren't thinking of anything, so it sent us to the last place it had been."

"Nice of Dorothea to tell us he was there," said Simon.

"Dorothea," Dean muttered. "Your neighbor, the Seeres at the foyer?"

Simon looked at him, startled, before nodding. "Why?"

"She's a Network asset, or, well. She used to be. I don't really understand what happened, it was a falling out of some sort. She's still listed as an asset, but no one asks for her help anymore."

"And you never thought to tell me?" Simon demanded, advancing on Dean. Questions or not, this was a little too much, wasn't it? It was a little too close to home. _Literally._

"I never thought I _had_ to. My life as a Hunter and Letter is completely separate from my live as a civilian." He paused, and then snorted, but the sound was humorless, uncharacteristic of Dean. Simon felt guilt build at the pit of his stomach at lashing out at Dean. "Was. _Was_ separated, couldn't quite separate it now, can I?" He shook his head. "This isn't about me, Simon. You can get mad at me later. Right now we have to figure out what Luke's connection to Dorothea is."

"He probably paid her off to be quiet," Jace answered, finally speaking up after watching Simon and Dean's conversation quietly. "Either that or she trusts him more than she trusts us. Which means he might not be—"

"Guys!" It was Clary, dashing into the office in a panic. Charlie was right behind her, eyes wide and excitement shining in her eyes as she looked at them. "Someone's coming."

Simon forgot everything for a moment: Dean’s tone, Dean’s expression, Dean’s words; Jace, Shadowhunters, Dorothea. Everything came crashing back to him at his next breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for still being here with me, friend. comments/suggestions/criticism are welcome


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u might get 2 more chapters today if i finish ze editing

**Eleven**

Simon dropped the photo, glad that it got caught by the bag and avoided making more noise than they already probably have. "Is it Luke?" he asked, keeping his voice low. His throat still felt scratchy from the speech session they had had earlier, and was sort of glad he had an excuse to have them lean closer in order to communicate.

Clary peered back down the hall—Simon resisted the urge to pull her back, to keep her safely hidden behind the wall—then nodded.

"It is. But he's not by himself—there are two men with him," Charlie said breathlessly. Her eyes were wide and bright, dancing with an expression Simon had only seen on her when they were trying out a new game or when they talked about weird plot holes that made them question their existence. It was scary, for the most part, but he can’t help but feel a wistful relief that somehow, at least, Charlie was getting something positive from this. "This is so exciting, guys. I feel like Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock doesn't usually do b and e, Red," Dean muttered fondly, coming forward to ruffle her hair. From the small glance he and Simon exchanged, he could see that Dean felt the same way. He smiled slightly.

"Men?" Jace asked sharply, ignoring Charlie's statement except for that word, probably. He crossed the room in a few strides, peered through the door, and spat a curse under his breath. "Warlocks."

Simon stared. "Warlocks? But—"

"Warlocks usually mean bad news," Dean said lightly, but there was a hard, grim glint in his eyes that belied his tone. Simon saw him reach for his belt from the corner of his eyes.

"What about witches?" Charlie asked.

Dean shrugged. "They're disgusting, most of the time. Dried blood, dead leaves. The works.”

“Ew,” both girls hissed.

Jace was shaking his head as he backed away from the door. "Is there some other way out of here? A back door?"

Simon shook his head. The sound of footsteps in the hallway was audible now, striking pangs of fear into his chest. _What if we get found? Oh no. Shit. Luke's not going to help me, is he? Luke is—_

 _Luke is with warlocks, Simon_.

Jace was looking around desperately. His eyes came to rest on the rosewood screen. "Get behind that," he said, pointing. "Now."

Simon slipped behind the screen quietly, grabbing Clary and pulling her after him. Charlie followed, and then Dean. Jace was right behind them, his stele in his hand. He had barely concealed himself when Simon heard the door swing wide open, the sound of people walking into Luke's office—then voices. Three men speaking. He looked nervously at Clary, who was very pale, and then at Jace, who had raised the stele in his hand and was moving the tip lightly, in a sort of square shape, across the back of the screen. As Simon stared, the square went clear, like a pane of glass. He heard the girls suck in twin sharp bursts of breath—a tiny sound, barely audible—and Jace shook his head at them both, mouthing, _They can't see us through it, but we can see them._

Biting his lip, Simon moved to the edge of the square and peered through it, conscious of Clary breathing down his neck, of Charlie craning her neck to see, of Dean squatting under Jace's and Simon's heads with a look of pure concentration on his face. He could see the room beyond perfectly: the bookshelves, the desk with the duffel bag thrown across it—and Luke, ragged-looking and slightly stooped, his glasses pushed up to the top of his head, standing near the door. It was frightening even though he knew he couldn't see Simon, that the window Jace had made was like the glass in a police station interrogation room: strictly one-way.

Luke turned, looking back through the doorway. "Yes, feel free to look around," he said, his tone heavily weighted with sarcasm. "Nice of you to show such an interest."

A low chuckle sounded from the corner of the office. With an impatient flick of the wrist, Jace tapped the frame of his "window," and it opened out wider, showing more of the room. There were two men there with Luke, both in long reddish robes, their hoods pushed back. One was thin, with an elegant gray mustache and pointed beard. When he smiled, he showed blindingly white teeth. The other was burly, thickset as a wrestler, with close-cropped reddish hair. His skin was dark purple and looked shiny over the cheekbones, as if it had been stretched too tight.

Dean raised a hand and began moving his fingers around in strange gestures Simon couldn't understand, but Charlie was shaking behind him in laughter when he glanced at her, and Clary was rolling his eyes, mouthing, _be serious!_. Even Jace looked amused at whatever Dean had done, and it seemed as if Simon was the only one who didn't get it.

"Those are warlocks?" Simon whispered softly instead.

Dean looked at him strangely, as if asking, _are you an idiot_ , but then he tensed. Simon did, too—even without looking, he knew something had happened to Jace.

He had gone rigid all over, stiff as a bar of iron. There was something about those two men, in their thick cloaks the color of arterial blood,that was terrifying. There was something about them that was affecting Jace, too—when Simon looked, Dean was pale. He was deathly pale.

"Consider this a friendly follow-up, Graymark," said the man with the gray mustache. His smile showed teeth so sharp they looked as if they'd been filed to cannibal points.

"There's nothing friendly about you, Pangborn." Luke sat down on the edge of his desk, angling his body so it blocked the men's view of his duffel bag and its contents. Now that he was closer, Simon could see that his face and hands were badly bruised, his fingers scraped and bloody. A long cut along his neck disappeared down into his collar. What on earth happened to him?

"Blackwell, don't touch that—it's valuable," Luke said sternly.

The big redheaded man, who had picked up the statue of Kali from the top of the bookcase, ran his beefy fingers over it consideringly. "Nice," he said. _No_ , Simon thought, watching with horror as his partner took it from him.

"Ah," said Pangborn. "She who was created to battle a demon who could not be killed by any god or man. ' _Oh, Kali, my mother full of bliss! Enchantress of the almighty Shiva, in thy delirious joy thou dancest, clapping thy hands together. Thou art the Mover of all that moves, and we are but thy helpless toys._ '"

" _Could also fucking kick your ass_ ," Dean hissed almost inaudibly.

"Very nice," said Luke. "I didn't know you were a student of the Indian myths."

"All the myths are true," said Pangborn, and Simon felt a small shiver go up his spine. He put a stablizing hand on Dean's shoulder. "Or have you forgotten even that?"

"I forget nothing," said Luke. Though he looked relaxed, Simon could see tension in the lines of his shoulders and mouth. "I suppose Valentine sent you?"

Simon froze.

"He did," said Pangborn. "He thought you might have changed your mind."

"There's nothing to change my mind about. I already told you I don't know anything. Nice cloaks, by the way."

"Thanks," said Blackwell with a sly grin. "Skinned them off a couple of dead warlocks."

"Those are official Accord robes, aren't they?" Luke asked. "Are they from the Uprising?"

Pangborn chuckled softly. "Spoils of battle."

"Aren't you afraid someone might mistake you for the real thing?"

"Not," said Blackwell, "once they got up close."

Simon backed away slowly, glancing at Clary and Charlie, who were unconsciously doing the same, sliding back slowly, slowly, in their cramped space. Jace and Dean were exuding such negative auras it was a surprise none of the men on the other side of their door have felt it yet.

Pangborn fondled the edge of his robe. "Do you remember the Uprising, Lucian?" he said softly. "That was a great and terrible day. Do you remember how we trained together for the battle?"

Luke's face twisted. "The past is the past. I don't know what to tell you gentlemen. I can't help you now. I don't know anything."

"'Anything' is such a general word, so unspecific," said Pangborn, sounding melancholy. "Surely someone who owns so many books must know something."

"If you want to know where to find a jog-toed swallow in springtime, I could direct you to the correct reference title. But if you want to know where the Mortal Cup has disappeared to…"

"Disappeared might not be quite the correct word," purred Pangborn. "Hidden, more like. Hidden by Jocelyn."

"That may be," said Luke. "So hasn't she told you where it is yet?"

"She has not yet regained consciousness," said Pangborn, carving the air with a long-fingered hand. "Valentine is disappointed. He was looking forward to their reunion."

Simon felt something akin to an ice blade piercing his heart, and he clenched his hand tighter on Dean's shoulder. He was sure this was painful for him now, but he didn't say anything, just resolutely glared outside of their viewing window.

"I'm sure she didn't reciprocate the sentiment," muttered Luke.

Pangborn cackled. "Jealous, Graymark? Perhaps you no longer feel about her the way you used to."

A trembling had started in Simon's fingers, slowly spreading throughout his body until he felt as if even his mind, his heart, his very soul was trembling along with it. He was feeling feverish, hot and cold at the same time, chilled to the bone and disoriented. _Jocelyn? Can they be talking about my mother?_

"I never felt any way about her, particularly," said Luke. "Two Shadowhunters, exiled from their own kind, you can see why we might have banded together. But I'm not going to try to interfere with Valentine's plans for her, if that's what he's worried about."

"I wouldn't say he was worried," said Pangborn. "More curious. We all wondered if you were still alive. Still recognizably human."

Luke arched his eyebrows. "And?"

"You seem well enough," said Pangborn grudgingly. He set the Kali statuette down on the shelf. "There was a child, wasn't there? A boy."

Just as suddenly as the trembling started, it stopped. _They're talking about me_.

Luke looked taken aback. "What?"

"Don't play dumb," said Blackwell in his snarl of a voice. "We know the bitch had a son. Or children. They found photos of him in the apartment, a bedroom—"

"I thought you were asking about children of mine," Luke interrupted smoothly. "Yes, Jocelyn had a son. Simon. I assume he's run off. Did Valentine send you to find him?"

"Not us," said Pangborn. "But he is looking."

_God, god no, god no, what_

"We could search this place," added Blackwell.

"I wouldn't advise it," said Luke, and slid off the desk. There was a certain cold menace to his look as he stared down at the two men, though his expression hadn't changed. "What makes you think he's still alive? I thought Valentine sent Raveners to scour the place. Enough Ravener poison, and most people will crumble away to ashes, leave no trace behind."

"There was a dead Ravener," said Pangborn. "It made Valentine suspicious."

"Everything makes Valentine suspicious," said Luke. "Maybe Jocelyn killed it. She was certainly capable."

Blackwell grunted. "Maybe."

Luke shrugged. "Look, I've got no idea where the boy is, but for what it's worth, I'd guess he's dead, in a ditch somewhere. He'd have turned up by now otherwise. Anyway, he's not much of a danger. He's sixteen years old, he's never heard of Valentine, and he doesn't believe in demons."

_Wrong, wrong, wrong. What are you doing? Who are you? What are you?_

Pangborn chuckled. "A fortunate child."

"Not anymore," said Luke.

Blackwell raised his eyebrows. "You sound angry, Lucian."

"I'm not angry, I'm exasperated. I'm not planning on interfering with Valentine's plans, do you understand that? I'm not a fool."

"Really?" said Blackwell. "It's nice to see that you've developed a healthy respect for your own skin over the years, Lucian. You weren't always so pragmatic."

"You do know," said Pangborn, his tone conversational, "that we'd trade her, Jocelyn, for the Cup? Safely delivered, right to your door. That's a promise from Valentine himself."

"I know," said Luke. "I'm not interested. I don't know where your precious Cup is, and I don't want to get involved in your politics. I hate Valentine," he added, "but I respect him. I know he'll mow down everyone in his path. I intend to be out of his way when it happens. He's a monster—a killing machine."

"Look who's talking," snarled Blackwell.

"I take it these are your preparations for removing yourself from Valentine's path?" said Pangborn, pointing a long finger at the half-concealed duffel bag on the desk. "Getting out of town, Lucian?"

Luke nodded slowly. "Going to the country. I plan to lay low for a while."

"We could stop you," said Blackwell. "Make you stay."

Luke smiled. It transformed his face. Suddenly he was no longer the kind, scholarly man who'd pushed Simon on the swings at the park and taught him and Clary how to ride a tricycle. Suddenly there was something feral behind his eyes, something vicious and cold. "You could try."

Pangborn glanced at Blackwell, who shook his head once, slowly. Pangborn turned back to Luke. "You'll notify us if you experience any sudden memory resurgence?"

Luke was still smiling. "You'll be first on my list to call."

Pangborn nodded shortly. "I suppose we'll take our leave. The Angel guard you, Lucian."

"The Angel does not guard those like me," said Luke. He picked the duffel bag up off the desk and knotted the top. "On your way, gentlemen?"

Lifting their hoods to cover their faces again, the two men left the room, followed a moment later by Luke. He paused a moment at the door, glancing around as if he wondered if he'd forgotten something. Then he shut it carefully behind him.

Simon stayed where he was, frozen, crouching, wondering at what he's heard, hearing the front door swing shut and the distant jingle of chain and keys as Luke refastened the padlock. He kept seeing the look on Luke's face, over and over, as he said he wasn't interested in what happened to his mother.

"Fucking _Christ_ , should've known," Dean hissed, the energy in him finally exploding and he jumped to his feet and out of their hiding place. He was running his hands through his hair roughly. Simon was afraid he was going to pull his scalp off. "Fuck, fuck, I'm supposed to report this. Shit, I'm gonna need— _goddamit, Fray_ ," he hissed, making Simon's head jerk up.

"What?" he asked. He was shaking.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Simon?" It was Clary, her voice hesitant, gentle. "Are you okay?"

He shook his head, mutely. He felt far from okay. In fact, he felt like he'd never be okay again.

"Of course he isn't." It was Jace, his voice sharp and cold as ice shards. He took hold of the screen and moved it aside sharply. "At least now we know who would send a demon after your mother. Those men think she has the Mortal Cup."

Simon felt his lips thin into a straight line. "That's totally ridiculous and impossible."

"Dean?" Charlie was saying. Simon looked up. Dean had his eyes closed. He looked like he was counting, or praying, maybe. Was Dean religious?

"I'm fine," Dean finally said with a breath, running his hands through his hair one more time.

"Have you ever seen those men before?" Jace asked Simon, fixing him with eyes filled with an intense emotion he couldn't name as he leaned against Luke's desk.

"No." He shook his head. "Never."

"Lucian seemed to know them. To be friendly with them."

"I wouldn't say friendly," said Simon. "I'd say they were suppressing their hostility."

"They didn't kill him outright," said Jace. "They think he knows more than he's telling."

"Maybe," said Clary, "or maybe they're just reluctant to kill another _Shadowhunter_." There was a silence after her statement, a silence that made Simon feel even more lost than he already was. _Luke was a Shadowhunter._

_So much for not knowing anything, then._

Jace laughed, a harsh, almost vicious noise that raised the hairs up on Simon's arms. "I doubt that."

He looked at him hard. "What makes you so sure? Do you know them?"

The laughter had gone from his voice entirely when he replied. "Do I _know_ them?" he echoed. "You might say that. Those are the men who murdered my father."

 

**..--..**

 

Dean wasn’t really sure what he was thinking anymore. He didn’t know what he _could_ or _should_ be thinking, except that this was slowly looking more and more like a horror movie than he thought was. He could feel it in his bones, he could feel it the instincts that came over him when he got into the right headspace during a hunt. There was something big right here, right in front of them, and when it explodes, they were going to be right in the middle of it.

He never would have expected that it would begin by following a random tip from a friend about guys with knives in a club.

Simon had taken one step closer to Jace, after his very… _revealing_ statement, but the Shadowhunter shrugged him off. Dean felt a sliver of annoyance and protectiveness slide down his spine at the display, but he tamped it down and wrote it off to nerves. Now wasn’t the time—nor the situation—to be playing the overprotective big brother card. Right now their main concern was—

“We should go,” Jace said, interrupting Dean’s thoughts. “We don’t know when Luke might come back.”

Dean agreed, and led them out of the through the backdoor. Jace used his stele to lock up behind them, and they made their way to the silent street.

After Charlie’s call, he had driven at the highest speed he could to get back to New York, telling Sam to buckle up and tearing off down the highway before the doors were completely closed. In hindsight, if Sam tells—if he tells that Dean _may have_ incurred a speeding ticket or twelve, if he tells that Dean _almost_ crashed the car’s doors into a post of five—he was bound to get into big trouble, not only from his parents, but from the law as well. Hunters were no friends to the good side of the law, but then again, if you didn’t have the funds, you never would be. He had hoped and prayed fervently as he leaned over the steering wheel for them not to crash, for there not to be any randomly skipping bucks or whatever the hell caused road accidents, aside from speeding drivers.

He had dropped Sam off as at home, giving his dad a pat on the shoulder, hugging his mother, ruffling Adam’s hair and telling them not to wait up for him because he might not come home til after midnight, and feeling guilty insane because his parents were leaving and his brothers were going to be out of town for who knows how long. He had stayed long enough to hear Adam rant about being bored all day, and smiling his way through his expression of the wish to go on a Hunt as well.

When he jumped back into his car, ready to just _drive_ to Luke’s place, everything seemed to slow down. He had to put things in perspective, he realized, watching his father throw bags and luggage into the trunk of the Impala quietly, not knowing why, but getting a feeling that _this will be the last time in a long while_. Last time to what, he didn’t know, and he feared he didn’t even _want_ to know.

But he took a deep breath. His mother was a Hunter, his father a Letter, and Sam just survived his first full Hunt. In a few years Adam will be starting his training, and they’d be a whole family in the business—they can take care of themselves. Clary, Charlie, _Simon_ , on the other hand…

“Is anyone ever going to say where we’re going?” Charlie asked in the overbearing, deafening silence that seemed to blanket them, pressing in on them as they continued to walk.

“To the L train,” Jace answered, his calm the sort of calmness that overcame people who were _anything_ but calm. It was the kind of stony, scary silence that parents—mothers, usually, probably—got whenever things screwed up, when they tamp down on their anger and frustration to the best of their abilities in order to keep their logical minds running, so they won’t end up making the situation worse.

Dean sighed. “I brought my car,” he said, stopping at the sidewalk, squinting at his friends in the darkness as they all turned to look at him, eyes glinting in the lamp post light. “I’ll meet you guys at the Institute.”

“No,” Jace said, stopping as well, turning around to look at Dean. He had a poker face that would give his Aunt Ellen a run for her money, but there was something burning in his eyes—an feeling, an _emotion_ that Dean either couldn’t or simply didn’t want to name. “We mustn’t separate. Let’s get to the institute.”

“I agree,” Simon—who stood closest to Dean—muttered, his face down. It seemed as if he was trying to stay as far from Jace as safely possible, staying within the protective circumference of a Hunter and a Shadowhunter but also preferring one over the other. Whatever else happened today, it had something to do with the both of them. Dean made a mental note—on top of _dozens_ of other mental notes, all of them making guilt twist hot and sick in his gut as he discarded most of them, because most of them were useless now—to ask him about it later. He mentally wrote ‘URGENT’ on top.

Dean turned on his heel after nodding his ascent, leading them down to the alley where they had undoubtedly climbed the fence to get into Luke’s property. Dean still couldn’t get why Charlie couldn’t have had directed him to the front, though—he could pick a lock well enough.

“Don’t demon hunters get to have some better rides, though?” Charlie asked when they finally arrive at the mouth of the alley, Dean signaling at them to wait as he got into the car. He kept the windows open, though, so he heard when she continued with, “I mean, no offense to Dean, but I was expecting something close to a gothic representation of what they do or something. Why commute when you can have a badass van with ‘demon slayers’ or some other corny shout out painted on the side?”

He parked, making sure his side was facing her, and gave her the most deadpan look over. “Not really friends with the law, Charles,” he told her as they got into the car, Clary primly pushing Simon to the side when he reached for the passenger side door.

“Don’t call me that!” she cried, slapping him on the shoulder. Dean glanced at the mirror as Jace slammed the door shut, seeing the pleading look he was sending Charlie, who was studiously ignoring him. “Seriously though, why can’t you have a better ride?”

“Gee, thanks, I can feel the appreciation for the car that has been ferrying your ungrateful ass throughout the city since I got it,” he said flatly, turning his lights on and pressing on the breaks. This time, he swore he won’t be driving to kill himself or his passengers. He’d drive safer.

“ _Whatever_ , Winchester,” Charlie muttered petulantly. Dean glanced at her again, and smiled fondly at the pouting look he caught on her face. Charlie was a very attractive girl, her eyes bright and freckles, though not as visible as Dean’s, contrasted her fair skin well. When she pouted, though…

“You look like a Chihuahua,” Dean said slowly, enunciating the word slowly, syllable by syllable until it made sense, because he knew how much it peeved her when she was compared to any sort of dog.

She pouted harder. He didn’t know it was possible.

Jace was silent the whole way there, not even giving a single condescending word regarding the stupid, shallow banter they had decided to immerse themselves in on the way to the Institute. Dean drove on autopilot, going by image memory in the many times he had driven by, thinking to himself that he would visit Simon, see him for a second, but never having the courage to do so, because _what if he woke up, what if he doesn’t, what do I say, how do I tell them_ —

It was quite obvious to all of them when they finally got to the Institute. Dean was surprised Jace didn’t jump out as soon as he cut the engine, instead moving slowly and properly so all four doors of the car opened almost simultaneously. He had always thought those scenes were awesome, when they happened in movies—it probably looked cool from the outside when it happened to them, too.

“Dude, you live here?” Charlie asked, her voice painted with awe and reverence as she stared up at the cathedral—the cracking walls, broken windows, yellow police tape. Dean, whose Sight had never been suppressed, saw the Institute for what it was: a gigantic castle, almost as beautiful as the original ancient castles being dug up around the world right now. It was high, looming in the darkness, its windows flickering with the telltale signs of flames and candles.

“You girls remember what I said about glamour?” Dean said, as they reached the top of the stairs. Jace stopped right before the doors, looking over his shoulder, as if prompting him to continue with his… explanation. “Clary, this is going to be kind of easy for you. Imagine what you’re seeing is a wall of paint—nothing relevant, nothing… eye catching. So you take a can of turpentine and you begin scraping off the top part of the paint. What do you see?”

Clary had her brows scrunched together in concentration, bright eyes shining in curiosity and excitement. _Maybe I should have started with something easier_ , he thought, just as Clary began blinking and shaking her head. “Was that—”

“You saw the Institute,” said Dean, smiling proudly at her. It must have been just a flicker—a trick of the eye if they weren’t paying attention. But by the awed look on Clary’s face, Dean knew that she had seen. She was an artist. She saw the world differently, she had a view not everyone could explain. Dean had been friends with her for years and even _he_ couldn’t completely understand how she could look at something and render it into a piece of paper with graphite and sponge and make it look ethereal in its printed, flattened version.

Dean saw Jace bring out a large, brass key from under his shirt, slipping it into a keyhole he hadn’t seen the first—and only—time he had ever been here. They went inside, following the Shadowhunter up another flight of stairs to what Dean now knew was an elevator, knowing by the looks of awe on Clary’s and Charlie’s faces that they’ve now seen the full effects of the glamour.

“So, let me guess why you chose a church,” Charlie said conversationally, her voice ricocheting off the walls of the church. Dean looked around himself, around what would have been a chapel, seeing in his mind hundreds of people seated in those pews, watching as pastors or ministers proclaimed the Word of God and His angels to the human populace. “Hallowed ground, safe from things that came both from Hell and not, right?”

“It is convenient,” Jace said, pulling the doors to the elevator open. He looked at them one more time before stepping inside. “I hope you see the relevance of the honor I’m doing you,” he said, turning to face them as one by one they stepped into the car. “You’re the first mundanes to ever step foot in the Institute.”

Dean sent a look to Jace, but he wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at Charlie and Clary. He frowned. _I’m one, too,_ he wanted to say petulantly, but he kept his mouth shut and stared straight ahead, watching as the stone of the Institute began moving past them. He could see those—those… _runes_ , both familiar and not, in each stone set into the shaft of the elevator they were in.

Looking at them felt like looking at one of his books, written in an old, obscure language and given to him to challenge him into reading more and translating. He knew he had seen those letters, words, _runes_ , before, just not in the physical sense of things. The Men of Letters prided themselves in their most effective way of teaching: information transfer by osmosis.

Seriously.

He knew millions—if not all—college and high school students out there would kill to learn the technology of how they were able to do it, but it wasn’t as fun as he thought when he first heard of it. First of all, because there was a cleansing process: you had to sleep— _meditate_ —under ice cold waters or conditions.

Dean’s birthday, coincidentally, was in winter. Guess where he’d spent his fourteenth birthday.

And it wasn’t just information they were passing to him, he realized, six days later when he finally woke up from his first transfer. He felt violated, in a way, but knowing he had agreed—remembering how they had explained to him that the person who will be transferring to him is _dying_ , and the strain of doing the transfer would _kill him_ —he had pushed it down and closed his eyes, journal on his lap, pen clutched in his hand, poised to remember every single thing.

He did.

He remembered words and books and lessons he never sat through; he remembered events and sights and smells as if he had been there and not just watching from the sidelines; he remembered seeing the most obscure writings ever heard of, ever written, ever attempted to be translated into a language comprehensible in today’s society.

He had been shared memories.

These… _Marks_ , he supplied for himself. These Marks had been in Averick Goldpill’s head—or at least, in the head of whoever he had shared with in the past or—

It was confusing to think of. But they taunted him, tickled his mind and embedded themselves in his memory like a child would, contented to lie in the arms of her mother. He blinked when the elevator came to a screeching halt, showing a hallway ahead, lit by candles held on the walls. The light they emitted caused the shadows to dance like they were living things, undulating and twitching and jumping, like they were unholy beings slowly being submerged into the holy ground on which they stand.

Jace shrugged off his jacket, chucking it into a nearby chair, and whistled. It was a high, uncomfortable sound, one that made even Charlie jumped at its suddenness in the silence of the entryway. A blue Persian cat appeared, its tail swishing above its head, looking at each of them in turn before finally resting its eyes on Jace, who had knelt before it.

He began stroking behind the cat’s ears. “Where’s Alec, Church? Where’s Hodge?” The cat arched its back, and Dean sneezed, feeling the telltale signs of an allergic reaction begin to tingle at the back of his throat. He brought his hand up to his face and sneezed again, feeling tears begin to well up in his eyes. They felt hot and uncomfortable, and he kept wiping them away.

When he straightened up, Jace was looking at him strangely. Simon, on the other hand, looked awfully guilty, while both Clary and Charlie were rummaging their bags. The latter offered him a roll of tissues, which he accepted gratefully. “I’m allergic to cats,” he explained to Jace’s confusion as Clary handed him a mat of antihistamines. He smiled at her.

“And I forgot to tell you,” Simon said, horror and guilt painting his voice.

“That’s okay,” said Dean, blowing his nose without much consideration. Then he downed a tablet. “One of my cousins has one, remember? If anything, I should feel like an idiot. I didn’t bring my medicine.”

Jace frowned. “The infirmary is close by,” he said, pointing to one side of the corridor at the end of the entryway. “Would you like to see Hodge at the library first?”

Something cold and heavy slid down his spine at the mention of the old man. He managed to give Jace a grin before he was forced to turn away by another sneeze. “That’s quite alright,” he answered, shaking his head. “I’ll be fine. Hello, Church,” he told the cat, who meowed at him and turned away.

He began walking down the corridor, Jace following him naturally.

“It’s a smart, independent cat,” said Charlie, watching as Church trotted away, Simon and Clary walking together behind Jace. “And I thought this was a church.”

“It kind of was, before it became the Institute,” Dean answered, blowing his nose on another tissue again.

“What kind of institute is it? A—what, demonology research?” Charlie had her face pinched into a pout once more. She had never gone along well with confusion and lack of information.

“It’s like a base camp, for Shadowhunters. Like the building up on the corner to Twelfth and East, that’s the Network Building. The Bunker in Lebanon, in Kansas, is the Letters’ base camp. It’s something like that.”

“The Network base camp was an old _military post_?”

“If it makes you feel any better, the Bunker used to be an underground library.”

“They have a thing for propriety, don’t they?”

Dean’s expression darkened. His silence seemed to be answer enough, as Charlie responded by linking their arms together and speeding up until they were close to Simon and Charlie.

“So get this,” Charlie said—Dean smirked at her, knowing she had gotten the expression from his little brother, who she was probably hanging around too much—“this is a church, right? An old one, at least. So a church, a military building, a library. Guess which side of the ‘Save the World’ spectrum owned one of those.”

Clary’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Huh,” she said, “a thing for propriety, maybe?”

Dean shook his friends. They all thought alike a little too much.

“Simon,” Charlie said, her tone serious, contrasting her earlier voice. “Are you sure it’s wise to… you know.” She gestured to Jace, and they all looked—he was walking confidently next to the cat, conversing in a quiet voice as he led them farther inside the Institute.

“It’s weird, I know,” Simon answered, gulping audibly. His throat clicked in the silence. “But he’s my best shot at finding my mom. Now at least, I know he won’t leave me alone. The men who kidnapped my mom killed his dad. He’s going to want revenge. I know it’s weird, okay? Trust me, please?”

Dean saw Clary turn her head and glare at the Shadowhunter leading them. “I trust you,” she said lowly. “I don’t trust _him_.”

“Try, please?” His tone was low, pleading, and Dean felt an ache at the bottom of his gut, inexplicable guilt making him almost shake, because he couldn’t even protect his friends correctly. God, he was such a fucking failure. “He’s my best shot at finding my mom. Please.”

“There’s something weird about this place, though,” Charlie said conversationally, tone still low but at least a little lighter. “It’s like—it’s like… it’s not _right_ , but it’s not _wrong_ , either, like there’s something here, something I’m going to want to see, or hold, or feel, but I’m not going to like it. It’s like—”

“Like how school feels on class card day,” Dean said, seeing it as the only analogy appropriate enough. _It isn’t_. “Because you know you failed a subject, but you still want to see it.”

Charlie nodded. “Yeah, something like that.”

Simon stopped walking so suddenly that Dean tripped over him. Ahead of them, Jace was looking back, facing a turn that lit him up—a doorway. And then he went inside. Dean felt a sliver of gratitude for the privacy. He straightened up, turning his back on the doorway, Clary moving to stand beside him so they stood in a small square, facing inward.

Simon was fiddling with the strap of the pack slung on his back. His face was cast down. “You guys don’t have to stay with me,” he said softly, though he had pointed out the merits of keeping them close to Jace in the car.

An emotion crashed over Dean and made him lock up. Protectiveness. Guilt. Affection. Pride. Determination. Sadness. Relief. Rage.

“Yes,” he said, his tone menacing as he stared Simon down, “we do.”

Simon smiled at them shakily, and gestured behind Dean. He nodded, and then turned on his heel, marching towards the open door determinedly. It turned out to be a kitchen—enormous and modern. It made the little cook in Dean wiggle in excitement at what he saw: steel counters, glassed-in shelves holding rows of crockery, overhead cabinets with intricately carved wooden doors, red-cast iron stove—

“Isabelle,” he said, surprised to see the beautiful girl inside here, remembering the small detail Alec had accidentally let slip when he was harassing Dean into going to the alley, that day three days ago. _Just three days ago, I was hearing you couldn’t cook. Why are you here_?

She had a round spoon in her hand, her dark hair pinned up on top of her head. Steam was rising from the pot, and ingredients were strewn everywhere—tomatoes, chopped garlic and onions, strings of dark-looking herbs, grated piles of cheese, some shelled peanuts, a handful of olives, and a whole fish, its eye staring glassily upward. Dean's neat freak cringed, and he physically did, too, when Isabelle waved her spoon at Dean.

Mary would have a field day in this kitchen.

"I'm making soup," Isabelle said. "Are you hungry?" She glanced behind him, her dark gaze taking in Simon as well as Clary and Charlie. "Oh, my God," she said with finality. "You brought another _mundie_ here? Hodge is going to kill you."

"Two, actually," said Charlie, and Dean looked at her, perturbed. She had a glaze in her eyes, almost as if she was seeing stars and—

 _Holy shit, she is_.

He hit her upside the head just as Clary wiggled her fingers. “I’m Clary. The drooling idiot is Charlie.”

Isabelle frowned at the both of them, but there was light amusement dancing in her eyes as she took in Charlie. Jace was glaring at the cat, saying something about him being a traitor, and Dean—

Sneezed. Isabelle looked at him.

“I’m allergic to cats,” he explained to her one more time. He sniffled.

“It’s not Church’s fault Hodge is going to kill you,” she told Jace. She dropped the spoon into the pot, and Dean wondered how the soup would taste like. Tomatoes, herbs, spices, cheese, peanuts, olives—fish. He shuddered at the thought of having to taste that.

“I had to bring them,” said Jace. “They know the truth. And today I saw the two men who killed my father.”

Isabelle turned to him. She looked upset, and Dean could only imagine what it must have felt. As far as his understanding of the situation went, Jace had been adopted by this family. Knowing a tragedy—

_They killed my father._

Did Jace _see_? Watch them do so?

“Who’s hungry?” Jace suddenly piped up, slinking towards the refrigerator. Church was at Isabelle’s feet now, looking up and purring just as she dropped a piece of fish. “We have—ah, spaghetti.”

“Oh my god, food,” Clary said, immediately scampering off to the fridge and taking the Tupperware from Jace. She frowned. “This Hodge is like the crazy roommate. ‘hodge’s. do not eat’.”

“He just likes things in order,” said Jace as he brought another container and kicked the door closed, bottles rattling inside. “Mundie girl, go grab us some utensils.”

Simon rolled his eyes and went to grab them himself, directing Charlie to park on a stool. Dean followed, accepting a fork from Simon thankfully. He hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, the adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream inhibiting his appetite, but now it has come back with a vengeance. Clary moved to sit on his other side, putting the container full of red pasta in front of him. They dug in immediately. He looked up—Simon was bickering with Jace as he tried to spear some food out of the container the Shadowhunter held.

“Don’t ruin your appetite,” Isabelle reminded, but when Dean looked, there was an amused expression on her face. _She knew she can’t cook, then._

The spaghetti, no matter how cold and how heavy it sat on his stomach, was delicious. He had never gone that long without eating anything before—therefore the pudge on his stomach he is both and not proud of.

“Let us go find Hodge,” Jace said after they’ve all finished eating. He looked at Church meaningfully. “Bring us to Hodge. For real this time. If you lead us anywhere else I’m turning you into a tennis racket.”

“I’m surprised you even know what a tennis racket _is_ ,” Simon muttered, standing and stretching with his arms over his head. He took his backpack from where he must have dropped it under the breakfast bar.

They left Isabelle in the kitchen, following Jace and the cat silently out to the corridor, Jace still hurling threats to the indifferent cat. Dean could feel the antihistamine begin working for him—a few minutes too late, but at least it was effective. He blew his nose one more time before allowing Clary to loop her arm around his.

“You doing okay?” she asked, watching as Charlie and Simon talk animatedly about whatever—the Toy Con, probably, the first Toy Con they had ever planned on getting into together and it turned out they’re probably going to miss it… together. _At least_.

“I’m alright,” he answered, clearing his throat. “How are _you_ doing?”

“I don’t know,” Clary said, her voice low. Dean looked at her. He wasn’t used to this side of Clary, though he had seen it several times in the past: the insecure, indecisive girl he had stood up for in the playground when she first moved in. After that she became one of the most confident people Dean had ever seen. “I feel like, like you know, all of you have such big parts in this. And then here I am.”

He bumped their shoulders together, smiling when she looked up. “Hey,” said Dean, “you have a big part in this, too. You’re our—our conscience, our decision-making body. We need that, if we’re going to stay alive. And so is Charlie. Okay?”

She bit her lip, but nodded, to Dean’s relief. “Don’t you feel it, though? Like—like something’s going to happen, and we’re—you’re in the middle of it all?”

“I do, and _we_ are.”

A small smile graced her face at his words, and she nodded—in agreement or acceptance, he wasn’t sure. He was pretty certain it was both, though.

His thoughts turned to what he had found in his car, before he had driven like a bat out of hell to Luke’s this afternoon. A feather, red as blood; a white card, a note written in beautiful calligraphy. An address he hasn’t checked yet.

He was more than ready to find out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Tumblr ](http://ehre-wahrheit.tumblr.com)


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: some violence (lower than canon levels, tbh), possessive thoughts/behavior, issues with control

 

 

"Does Isabelle always make dinner for you?" Charlie was asking Jace. Dean and Clary had sped up their steps when, on a turn, they had lost sight of the other three until they looked the other way and found them about thirty paces away.

Simon looked at them strangely. "What's funny?"

"Nothing," said Clary.

"No, thank God," Jace answered, ignoring them, for the most part. He liked doing that. "Most of the time the Lightwoods are here and Maryse—that's Isabelle's mother—she cooks for us. She's an amazing cook." He looked dreamy, the way Charlie was looking at Isabelle in the kitchen. Literal stars were in his eyes.

"Then how come she never taught Isabelle?" Clary asked this time. They were passing through an open door, showing a music room now. Dean saw the shape of a piano in the darkness. Shadows had gathered thickly in the corners.

"Because," Jace said slowly, "it's only been recently that women have been Shadowhunters along with men. I mean, there have always been women in the Clave—mastering the runes, creating weaponry, teaching the Killing Arts—but only a few were warriors, ones with exceptional abilities. They had to fight to be trained. Maryse was a part of the first generation of Clave women who were trained as a matter of course—and I think she never taught Isabelle how to cook because she was afraid that if she did, Isabelle would be relegated to the kitchen permanently."

"Would she have been?" Clary asked curiously. Dean remembered the Men of Letters, of Liam's father, of their view as women as unnecessary liabilities in their line of work—nothing but cover, just people to use as excuses when they plan on engaging in dangerous situations. And then he thought of Isabelle, beautiful even in the unhealthy tint of the lights in the storage room of Pandemonium, confident as she flicked her wrist and her whip—dangerous, deadly, formidable—sliding like a beautiful golden ribbon.

Jace laughed softly. "Not Isabelle. She's one of the best Shadowhunters I've ever known."

"Better than Alec?"

Church, streaking soundlessly ahead of them through the gloom, came to a sudden halt and meowed. He was crouched at the foot of a metal spiral staircase that spun up into a hazy half-light overhead. "So he's in the greenhouse," Jace said. It took them all a moment before they realized he was speaking to the cat. "No surprise there."

"The greenhouse?" Simon asked.

Predictably, Dean answered with: "The greenhouse."

"The greenhouse?"

"The greenhouse."

"Holy Dante," Charlie interrupted. Dean and Simon both laughed at the disgruntled, confused look on Jace's face, before he shook his head and swung himself onto the first step.

"Hodge likes it up there," he explained, "in _the greenhouse_." He sent them a Look. "He grows medicinal plants, things we can use. Most of them only grow in Idris. I think it reminds him of home."

Clary followed him first, quickly followed by Charlie. Dean gestured for Simon to go first before he took a step on the stairs. Their shoes clattered on the metal steps; Jace's didn't. "Is he better than Isabelle?" Simon asked, bringing up their original line of conversation. "Alec, I mean."

He paused and looked down at them, leaning down from the steps as if he were poised to fall. Dean thought he looked like an angel, ready to fall from grace. "Better?" he said. "At demon-slaying? No, not really. He's never killed a demon."

"Really?" Dean asked.

"I don't know why not. Maybe because he's always protecting Izzy and me." They had reached the top of the stairs. A set of double doors greeted them, carved with patterns of leaves and vines. Jace shouldered them open.

The smell struck Dean the moment he passed through the doors: a green, sharp smell, the smell of living and growing things, of dirt and the roots that grew in dirt. It was like the little green house the Letters had in the Bunker, except this felt more—more connected to the earth, for some reason. He had been expecting something much smaller, something the size of the little greenhouse out behind St. Xavier's, where the AP biology students cloned pea pods, or whatever it was they did. This was a huge glass-walled enclosure, lined with trees whose thickly leaved branches breathed out cool green-scented air. There were bushes hung with glossy berries, red and purple and black, and small trees hung with oddly-shaped fruits he'd never seen before.

Simon exhaled. "It smells like…"

 _Springtime,_ Dean thought, before the heat comes and crushes the leaves into pulp and withers the petals off the flowers.

"Home," said Jace, "to me." He pushed aside a hanging frond and ducked past it. They quickly followed.

The greenhouse was laid out in what seemed to Dean's untrained eye no particular pattern, but everywhere he looked was a riot of color: blue purple blossoms spilling down the side of a shining green hedge, a trailing vine studded with jewel-toned orange buds. They emerged into a cleared space where a low granite bench rested against the bole of a drooping tree with silvery green leaves. Water glimmered in a stone-bound rock pool. Hodge sat on the bench, his black bird perched on his shoulder. He had been staring thoughtfully down at the water, but looked skyward at their approach. Dean followed his gaze upward and saw the glass roof of the greenhouse shining above them like the surface of an inverted lake.

The unease he felt whenever he was in Hodge's presence came to him, but the peace of their surroundings seemed to abate it, just a bit, just enough for him to appreciate his scholarly look.

"You look like you're waiting for something," Jace observed, breaking a leaf off a nearby bough and twirling it between his fingers. For someone who seemed so contained, he had a lot of nervous habits. Perhaps he just liked to be constantly in motion.

"I was lost in thought." Hodge rose from the bench, stretching out his arm for Hugo. The smile faded from his face as he looked at them. "What happened? You look as if—" His eyes trained on Clary, who waved, and he paled. He looked at Charlie. She waved, too. "Oh," he breathed.

Dean felt protectiveness rise in his gut. He unconsciously spread his stance, making sure that Clary was at least an inch behind him.

"Hello there," Hodge said, his voice strange as he looked at the two girls, before finally settling his gaze on Jace.

"We were attacked," Jace said shortly. "Forsaken."

"Forsaken warriors? Here?" His tone was harsh, eyes wide with horror. He had, at least Dean thought, forgotten about the mundanes for the moment.

"Warrior," said Jace. "We only saw one."

"But Dorothea said there were more," Simon added.

Dean looked at him. He looked back, and Dean mouthed, _you never said that_.

He mouthed _Sorry_ back.

"Dorothea?" Hodge held a hand up. "This might be easier if you took events in order." He looked at Clary and Charlie. "And added the events that lead to the ladies coming here. Please, take a seat."

"Right." Jace gave them all a warning look, cutting them off before they could even start talking. Then he launched into a recital of the afternoon's events, leaving out only one detail—that the men in Luke's apartment had been the same men who'd killed his father. "Simon's mother's friend—or whatever he is, really—goes by the name Luke Garroway," Jace finished finally. "But while we were at his house, the two men who claimed they were emissaries of Valentine referred to him as Lucian Graymark."

"And their names were…"

"Pangborn," said Jace. "And Blackwell."

Hodge had gone very pale. Against his gray skin a scar along his cheek—one Dean hasn't really noticed before—stood out like a twist of red wire. "It is as I feared," he said, half to himself. "The Circle is rising again."

Dean looked at Jace for clarification, but he seemed as puzzled as the rest of them were. "The Circle?" he said.

Hodge was shaking his head as if trying to clear cobwebs from his brain. "Come with me," he said. "It's time I showed you something."

Dean felt something heavy—heavier than the spaghetti, heavier than the guilt—settle in the pit of his stomach, and he stood frozen, watching as Hodge led them out of the greenhouse. Simon, Clary and Charlie followed him immediately, but Jace stayed behind. He was looking at Dean.

"You do know it's not for you," said Jace, "this dread."

"It's for someone I care about," Dean answered, still staring at the wood of the door, not really meaning to get left behind with blondie. "It's for someone I care about, and I know there's nothing I can do to protect him from it."

"He really won't like it, then."

"Have you seen your tutor's face?"

Jace was quiet. And then, "Let's go, Dean. Might as well get the agony over with."

"Like ripping a band aid."

"Like ripping an eye mask from a child."

_Like ripping a band aid._

 

*.*

 

The gas lamps were lit in the library, and the polished oak surfaces of the furniture seemed to smolder like somber jewels. Streaked with shadows, the stark faces of the angels holding up the enormous desk looked even more suffused with pain. Clary was sitting on the red sofa, legs drawn up, Charlie in the same position as she was, on the other side. Simon was leaning restlessly against the sofa arm beside her.

Jace and Dean had gotten there, finding Hodge looking around the shelves for something, and the tension was so thick it could be sliced by an angel blade. Dean stood behind Clary, resting his arms on the back rest of the couch. Jace stood impassively beside him.

"Hodge, if you need help looking—" the Shadowhunter began.

"Not at all." Hodge emerged from behind the desk, brushing dust from the knees of his trousers. "I've found it."

He was carrying a large book bound in brown leather. Dean remembered the Letters index from the Library, the one he had browsed through on that morning after Pandemonium. He paged through it with an anxious finger, blinking owl-like behind his glasses and muttering: "Where… where… ah, here it is!" He cleared his throat before he read aloud: "I hereby render unconditional obedience to the Circle and its principles…. I will be ready to risk my life at any time for the Circle, in order to preserve the purity of the bloodlines of Idris, and for the mortal world with whose safety we are charged."

Jace made a face. "What was that from?"

"It was the loyalty oath of the Circle of Raziel, twenty years ago," said Hodge, sounding strangely tired.

"It sounds creepy," said Clary. "Like a fascist organization or something."

"Or an evil Dumbledore's Army," Charlie muttered.

Dean said nothing, noting the angel’s name. _He had a fascist circle named after him,_ he thought. _This might be interesting._

Hodge set the book down. He looked as pained and grave as the statuary angels beneath the desk. "They were a group," he said slowly, "of Shadowhunters, led by Valentine, dedicated to wiping out all Downworlders and returning the world to a 'purer' state. Their plan was to wait for the Downworlders to arrive in Idris to sign the Accords. They must be signed again each fifteen years, to keep their magic potent," he added, for the mundane's benefit. He knew this tune. He knew the Accords. He felt something in him clench. "Then, they planned to slaughter them all, unarmed and defenseless. This terrible act, they thought, would spark off a war between humans and Downworlders—onethey intended to win."

"The Accords," Dean said lowly, his voice strange even to himself. He felt Clary rest a hand on his hand, white knuckled as he grasped his arms. "My parents were in the last signing of the Accords. They'll be in this year's."

"That was the Uprising," said Jace, finally recognizing in Hodge's story one that was already familiar to him. Dean felt his eyes on him, but he didn't dare meet his eyes. "I didn't know Valentine and his followers had a name."

They all must have been young children—one, two—when the whole thing exploded. Dean had strange dreams about that, sometimes, of having to stay with Uncle Bobby and Aunt Ellen and the chaos when they received a message from his parents.

Those weren't dreams.

They were memories, he knew now.

"The name isn't spoken often nowadays," said Hodge. "Their existence remains an embarrassment to the Clave. Most documents pertaining to them have been destroyed."

"Then why do you have a copy of that oath?" Jace asked.

Hodge hesitated—only for a moment, but Dean saw it, and his mistrust of the old man was only cemented further. Hodge opened his mouth, and Dean felt even worse, because this was it. These were the revelations he never wanted to have. "Because," he said, finally, "I helped write it."

Jace looked up at that. "You were in the Circle." His voice was flat. Emotionless.

"I was. Many of us were." Hodge was looking straight ahead. "Simon's mother as well."

"Explain," Dean said, having a strange feeling come over him. "The _Pactum_. It was created after the Uprising. Why?"

Hodge was hesitant, but he must have seen something in Dean's face, because he cleared his throat. "Before the Uprising, the Hunter Network, the Shadowhunters, and the Men of Letters stood hand in hand in this war against the darkness. The Circle recruited the best in the younger generations of all three groups."

"Goddamn it, that's why we were separated in the first place."

"Your father was a member of the Circle as well, Dean."

"I know." He laughed shallowly. "I know. I knew you knew him from the look on your face when you found out my name."

"Dean..."

"So what now? I get the best of three worlds. What's in it for me?"

There was a silence, heavy, tense, and uncomfortable, one that Simon broke by saying, shocked and breathy, "What?"

"I said—"

"I know what you said! My mother would never have belonged to something like that. Some kind of—some kind of hate group."

"It wasn't—" Jace began, but Hodge cut him off.

"I doubt," he said slowly, as if the words pained him, "that she had much choice."

Simon stared. "What are you talking about? Why wouldn't she have had a choice?"

"Because," said Hodge, "she was Valentine's wife."

 _Fucking Hell, I_ hate _Hunter's instincts._

There was a stunned, incredulous silence before all of them started talking at once.

“Valentine had a wife? He was married? I thought—”

“My mom married one man— _one man_ , my father, she wouldn’t have married any other person! She wouldn’t have—”

“God, this feels like a giant Harry Potter mishap. _Lord Voldemort has a wife! Celebrate!_ ”

“Goddamn it. Damn this all. I quit. I _quit_.”

“Children,” Hodge said warily.

“I’m not a child!” they all snapped at him, and he seemed to be physically pushed by their tone. He took a step back and raised his hands in surrender.

Dean took a look at Simon, knowing—but not understanding—what he was feeling right at the moment. It wasn’t a shock to him. Simon, though…

He was normal. He was completely normal, until suddenly he wasn’t and he’s being thrust into a world where he didn’t know if he could even trust his own _mother_. He looked stricken, lost and confused, pretty much like all of them in the past couple of days. There was no going back from this to being totally, completely blind now. They were in far too deep.

He glanced at the girls. Charlie had a hand on Simon’s arm, rubbing it in affectionate, reassuring circles. Clary was doing the same thing to him. They weren’t a part of this—they could still—theoretically—go back.

"Your mother left the Circle," said Hodge, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. He didn't move toward them but watched Simon across the room with a bird's bright-eyed stillness. "Once we realized how extreme Valentine's views had become—once we knew what he was prepared to do—many of us left. Lucian was the first to leave. That was a blow to Valentine. They had been very close." Hodge shook his head. "Then Michael Wayland. Your father, Jace.

"Mary was quickly able to dissuade John from going any further in Valentine's inner Circle. They were close, but not as close as Lucian was. He left immediately."

Neither Dean nor Jace said anything, though Dean felt something akin to the cold of betrayal as his family's history was disclosed—a part of his history that even he didn't know existed.

He knew that John wasn't always as white-laced as he was now, going for the route of justice and 'knowing everyone's side' instead of the Hunter way of the death sentence as soon as someone broke the rules. The fact that he was part of a Downworlder hate cult, though, was another story altogether.

"There were those who stayed loyal. Pangborn. Blackwell. The Lightwoods—"

"The Lightwoods? You mean Robert and Maryse?" Jace looked thunderstruck. "What about you? When did you leave?"

"I didn't," said Hodge softly. "Neither did they. …We were afraid, too afraid of what he might do. After the Uprising the loyalists like Blackwell and Pangborn fled. We stayed and cooperated with the Clave. Gave them names. Helped them track down the ones who had run away. For that we received clemency." He risked a look at Dean, but he didn't have to. He knew Hodge's tune now: open a secret about the Shadowhunters, reveal something about Dean Winchester. He smirked at him humorlessly. "Christian, your mother's brother—"

Dean knew Uncle Christian. He didn't visit often, but whenever he did, there was a cloying tension in the air that Dean never did understand. He was pretty sure he did now. Uncle Christian was exiled, away from his family—away from his child.

Christian, Jr. was a fucking douchebag.

"Clemency?" There was something in Jace's voice, something Hodge must have heard, too.

He said, gently, as if he feared spooking a wild, dangerous animal: "You are thinking of the curse that binds me here, aren't you? You always assumed it was a vengeance spell cast by an angry demon or warlock. I let you think it. But it is not the truth. The curse that binds me was cast by the Clave."

"For being in the Circle?" Jace asked, his face a mask of astonishment.

"For not leaving it before the Uprising."

"But the Lightwoods weren't punished," Clary said. "Why not? They'd done the same thing you'd done."

"There were extenuating circumstances in their case—they were married, they had a child. Although it is not as if they reside in this outpost, far from home, by their own choice. We were banished here, the three of us—the four of us, I should say; Alec was a squalling baby when we left the Glass City. They can return to Idris on official business only, and then only for short times. I can never return. I will never see the Glass City again." He looked at them. “All of you must have been a year or two old when the Uprising happened.”

"Is that what you called them?" Dean asked. "Back then, before the Network established their own Courts, before the Letters had the Board. Is that what you called them? Clave?"

"It's what we—the Nephilim—have always called them. Before the separation, there was a joint court."

"What did you call that?"

Hodge stared. "The Angel's Circle."

"It's where Valentine got his idea, wasn't it."

There was a complete, astonished silence. "So it made sense, then," Simon began, "that they separated—" he hesitated, sending a look—contrite? Apologetic?—to Dean. "—you."

 _Oh_.

"It lasted one generation," Hodge answered, voice weighed down and world-weary. "We should have known that the Laws would be broken just as easily. By our children, no less."

"You have really weird laws, when you think about it," said Simon conversationally. Dean looked at him. He was staring at Hodge, eyes wide and shining with an emotion that—

Shock.

Simon was in _shock_.

"The law is hard but it is the law," said Jace.

"I taught you that," said Hodge, dry amusement in his voice. "And now you turn my lessons back at me. Rightly too." He looked as if he wanted to sink down into a nearby chair, but held himself upright nevertheless. In his rigid posture there was something of the soldier he had once been. It reminded him of how his father would hold himself some days, of the wary looks Mary and the other Hunters would exchange whenever a certain topic was brought up, as if they were afraid it would set him off.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" Simon asked. "That my mother was married to Valentine. You knew her name—"

"I knew her as Jocelyn Fairchild, not Jocelyn Fray," said Hodge. "And you were so insistent on her ignorance of the Shadow World, you convinced me it could not be the Jocelyn I knew—and perhaps I did not want to believe it. No one would wish for Valentine's return." He shook his head again. "When I sent for the Brothers of the Bone City this morning, I had no idea just what news we would have for them," he said. "When the Clave finds out Valentine may have returned, that he is seeking the Cup, there will be an uproar. I can only hope it does not disrupt the Accords."

"I bet Valentine would like that," Jace said. "But why does he want the Cup so badly?"

"How do you even know he wants whatever this cup is?" Charlie asked, the first time she has spoken, and her harsh tone stunned them all. She was glaring at Hodge, her posture—words—expression all screaming distrust and disbelief.

"You told me there _was_ a cup," Simon said, his voice now flat, and Dean was half-relieved at least he wasn't in shock anymore. "Operational word _was_ , as in, past tense. You said he—V – Valentine destroyed it."

"Remember the conversation at Luke's?" Dean asked. He waited for everyone's positive response before asking Hodge, once more, "So, let's say Valentine got his hands on the cup. What's gonna use it for?"

Hodge's face was gray. "Isn't that obvious?" he said. "So he can build himself an army."

Jace looked startled. "But that would never—"

"Dinnertime!"

Everyone jumped.

It was Isabelle, standing framed in the door of the library. She still had the spoon in her hand, though her hair had escaped from its bun and was straggling down her neck. "Sorry if I'm interrupting," she added, as an afterthought.

"Dear God," said Jace, "the dread hour is nigh."

Hodge looked alarmed. "I—I—I had a very filling breakfast," he stammered. "I mean lunch. A filling lunch. I couldn't possibly eat—"

"I threw out the soup," Isabelle said. "And ordered Chinese from that place downtown."

Jace unhitched himself from where he perched and stretched. "Great. I'm starved."

"Asshat," Dean muttered. Jace turned a beatific grin at him.

"I might be able to eat a bite," admitted Hodge meekly.

"You two are terrible liars," said Isabelle darkly. "Look, I know you don't like my cooking—"

"So stop doing it," Jace advised her reasonably. "Did you order mu shu pork? You know I love mu shu pork."

"I hope you got enough for nine people, I can eat a horse," Simon interrupted, jumping up and walking towards Isabelle. Clary rolled her eyes.

Charlie was already next to the Shadowhunter, watching her with stars in her eyes. Of all the people Charlie could have a crush on, it had to be Isabelle Lightwood.

Isabelle cast her eyes skyward. "Yes. It's in the kitchen."

"Awesome." Jace ducked by her with an affectionate ruffle of her hair. Hodge went after him, pausing only to pat Isabelle on the shoulder—then he was gone, with a funny apologetic duck of the head. Simon, Clary and Charlie quickly followed, leaving Dean to walk with Isabelle. He offered her his arm, which she took gracefully with a little curtsy.

"They're really bad liars, aren't they?" Dean asked, as they walked, following the sound of voices down the hallway.

"Jace is not a liar at all. Not about important things. He'll tell you horrible truths, but he won't lie." She paused before she added quietly: "That's why it's generally better not to ask him anything unless you know you can stand to hear the answer."

Dean blinked, and then nodded, not really sure if he was agreeing or accepting.

 

*.*

 

The kitchen was warm and full of light and the salt-sweet smell of takeout Chinese food. The smell reminded Dean of home, of Sam and Adam trying to talk Mary into allowing take out, of John winking at them behind his wife's back and pointedly pocketing a phone. He sat down and grabbed a Styro, took his set of chopsticks and began eating.

He was _this_ close to moaning at the explosion of flavor in his mouth—salty, herby, spicy. Chinese-y.

"Well, I think it's kind of romantic," said Isabelle, sucking tapioca pearls through an enormous pink straw.

"What is?" asked Charlie, instantly alert. She looked so adorably like a little puppy it was almost ridiculous.

"That whole business about Simon's mother being married to Valentine," said Isabelle. Jace and Hodge had filled her in, though Dean noted that both had left out the part about the Lightwoods having been in the Circle, and the curses the Clave had handed down. (He also noticed that they left out the part where the mundanes had nothing to do with anything but they were still around.) "So now he's back from the dead and he's come looking for her. Maybe he wants to get back together."

"I kind of doubt he sent a Ravener demon to her house because he wants to 'get back together,'" said Alec, who had turned up when the food was served. Nobody had asked him where he'd been, and he hadn't offered the information. He was sitting next to Jace, across from Dean, and aside from a little derogatory sigh, said nothing about the presence of non-Shadowhunters in the kitchen. He must have braced himself for this already, after Dean's failed attempt at giving him a black eye in the alley.

Dean sent him a grin. Alec looked away.

"It wouldn't be my move," Jace agreed. "First the candy and flowers, then the apology letters, then the ravenous demon hordes. In that order."

"He might have sent her candy and flowers," Isabelle said. "We don't know."

"Can we please not?" Simon asked miserably, stabbing at his food and ending up with his chopstick going through the bottom for the Styrofoam. "It's creepy thinking of my mom as a love interest."

"Why not?" Isabelle asked. She looked... flabbergasted. Ha. "If she weren't a love interest you wouldn't be here!"

"Merlin's beard," Charlie muttered, hitting her forehead with her palm as if it would help her un-hear what Isabelle had just said.

Clary, whose forehead was now resting on the glass of the table, looked like she has given up. Dean felt like doing something in the middle.

"Isabelle," said Hodge patiently, interrupting whatever Simon was about to say that will _undoubtedly_ set him up for something disgusting, disturbing jab, "this is the man who rained down destruction on Idris the like of which it had never seen, who set Shadowhunter against Downworlder and made the streets of the Glass City run with blood."

"That's sort of hot," Isabelle argued, "that evil thing."

Charlie looked at her sharply, and even from where Clary had hidden her face, Dean can see a small smile gracing her lips. _Girls and bad boys_ , he thought, shaking his head and putting a dumpling into his mouth.

"So why does Valentine want this Cup so bad, and why does he think Simon's mom has it?" she asked, pulling her head up just enough to put food in her mouth. She caught Alec's look and chewed. _Obnoxiously_.

Being the responsible father that he was, Dean swatted her upside the head and gave her a look that said, behave.

"You said it was so he could make an army," Simon said, turning to Hodge. "You mean because you can use the Cup to make Shadowhunters?"

"Yes."

"So Valentine could just walk up to any guy on the street and make a Shadowhunter out of him? Just with the Cup?" Charlie asked, frowning. "Let's say he offered it to me, or Clary. Would it work on us?"

Hodge gave her a long and measured look. "Possibly," he said. "But most likely, you're too old. The Cup works on children. An adult would either be unaffected by the process entirely, or killed outright."

"A child army," said Isabelle softly.

"Only for a few years," said Jace. "Kids grow fast. It wouldn't be too long before they were a force to contend with."

Dean turned a look on him, feeling his food settle coldly in the pit of his stomach. "Think for a moment if _you_ knew a child Valentine had gotten his hands on. Would you be able to do anything?"

Jace opened his mouth.

"Think of Max," Simon interrupted. Dean looked at him. His eyes were hard, fierce, as they settled on Jace. He knew who Simon was thinking of, because he was thinking about them, too. Sam. Adam. "If he were a mundane and he was one of the children Valentine turned. Would you still call his army of children something that's 'just for a few years'? Let's say we waited. Would you be able to hurt him? _Kill him_ , if need be?"

Things happened so fast, then. Jace stood up, his chair flying and hitting the cabinets behind him as he lunged for Simon. Alec and Isabelle stood, both of them glaring daggers at the mundanes in their kitchen, as if this was the only time they registered their existence.

Dean countered Jace's attack, pushed Simon behind him and caught Jace under his weight on the cold tile, snarling as he rested his forearm on his windpipe.

Should this have been any other circumstance, he would have flirted with Jace: hair ruffled, laid out beneath him, both wrists pinned under his knees. But right now, he was a threat to his friends.

He was a fucking threat, and _threats are to be eliminated._

 _Crush his windpipe_ , a voice in his head whispered with glee.

He began resting more weight on Jace's throat.

"DEAN!"

He snapped out of it.

He looked under him, seeing a cold, dead body, gold eyes—morphing into blue—grey—brown—staring up at him as blood bubbled up from pale lips.

There was a smirk on his lips, as if he was mocking Dean, even in his death.

He scrambled away from Jace, lying limp, cold, _dead_ and pushed as fast as he was able, but his hands were slipping on the blood, on the tile, and there was so much blood, _so much blood_ —

"Dean!"

Simon's face was right before his, and he snapped out of it. Again. Jace was hacking behind Simon, a bruise forming on his neck. Charlie was rubbing his back, helping him breathe. Alec had his stele out, writing a rune on Jace's throat.

"It's not real?" he breathed, freaked out as he took a hold of Simon's arms. "It's not real, he's not dead?"

Simon's eyes were concerned and confused, but his voice was sure as he said, "No, it's not real. Jace is alive and he's sorry."

"I didn't kill him."

"You didn't kill him."

Dean pulled Simon to him, crushing him to his chest and clutching at his back like a lifeline. His heart was beating harshly in his chest, he could hear it in his ears; he was shaking, his mind was racing, but he was fine. He didn't kill anybody.

 _Yet_.

 _I’m not killing anybody,_ he thought to himself as he let Simon go. _I’m not going to kill anybody_.

Simon still looked worried, but Dean felt more calm now than he did a few minutes earlier. Jace had stopped coughing now, and there was a strange look on his face as he took in Simon where he knelt between Dean’s legs. He met Dean’s eyes and shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” they said at the same time. Alec and Isabelle stood to the side, Clary and Charlie with them—surprise!—and it was a shock when Jace stood and offered his hands, one to Simon and one to Dean.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said again, his voice dry and cracking as he took Jace’s hand and let the Shadowhunter pull him up. They both helped Simon up to his feet. Hodge was at the door, looking somewhere between shocked and livid, but he remained silent as Jace went to retrieve his chair and sit down, continuing his meal in silence.

One by one, they followed.

 

"So let's get back to talking business," Simon said, five minutes into all of them restarting dinner. "Why can't we allow Valentine to get his hands on the Cup?"

"Leaving out that he would inevitably use this army to launch an attack on the Clave," Hodge said dryly, "the reason that only a few humans are selected to be turned into Nephilim is that most would never survive the transition. It takes special strength and resilience. Before they can be turned, they must be extensively tested—but Valentine would never bother with that. He would use the Cup on any child he could capture, and cull out the twenty percent who survived to be his army."

Alec was looking at Hodge with the same horror Dean felt. Earlier, his flare of emotions was caused by the sudden thought of Sam and Adam falling into Valentine's category of 'children'. Now, though, the true horror of the situation was beginning to dawn on him. On all of _them_. "So if Valentine forced a child to drink, there's an eighty percent chance they'll die?"

"Ninety," said Hodge.

"How do you know he'll do that?" Alec asked, his voice and posture tight.

"Because," Hodge said, "when he was in the Circle,that was his plan. He said it was the only way to build the kind of force that was needed to defend our world."

"But that's murder," said Isabelle, who looked a little green. "He was talking about killing children."

"He wants a fanatic army," Dean said. "He wants an army with blind obedience."

"He said that we had made the world safe for humans for a thousand years," said Hodge, "and now was their time to repay us with their own sacrifice."

"Their children?" demanded Jace, his cheeks flushed. "That goes against everything we're supposed to be about. Protecting the helpless, safeguarding humanity—"

Hodge pushed his plate away. "Valentine was insane," he said. "Brilliant, but insane. He cared about nothing but killing demons and Downworlders. Nothing but making the world pure. He would have sacrificed his own children for the cause and could not understand how anyone else would not."

"He had other children?" said Alec.

"I was speaking figuratively," said Hodge, reaching for his handkerchief. He used it to mop his forehead before returning it to his pocket. His hand, Dean saw, was trembling slightly. "When his land burned, when his home was destroyed, it was assumed that he had burned himself and the Cup to ashes rather than relinquish either to the Clave. His bones were found in the ashes, along with the bones of his wife."

"But my mother lived," said Simon. "She didn't die in that fire."

"And neither, it seems now, did Valentine," said Hodge. "The Clave will not be pleased to have been fooled. But more importantly, they will want to secure the Cup. And more importantly than that, they will want to make sure Valentine does not."

"It seems to me that the first thing we'd better do is find Simon's mother," said Jace. "Find her, find the Cup, get it before Valentine does."

This sounded fine to Dean (and to Simon, he was sure), but Hodge looked at Jace as if he'd proposed juggling nitroglycerine as a solution. "Absolutely not."

"Then what do we do?"

"Nothing," Hodge said. "All this is best left to skilled, experienced Shadowhunters."

"Goddamn it," Dean breathed, pushing his own plate away and standing. "I'm not going to stand for that, okay? If there's anything I know, it's that if you want something done well, you do it yourself."

"It's what your culture does," said Hodge, not looking up at Dean. "We trust in our Clave."

"Your _Clave_ must have known there was something up with Valentine," he said angrily, "did they do anything to stop it? No! At least the Hunters and Letters proposed the _Pactum_!"

"I am skilled," protested Jace, cutting Dean's rant off. "I am experienced."

Hodge's tone was firm, nearly parental. "I know that you are, but you're still a child, or nearly one." He finally looked up at Dean. "And until I see a Letters' ring on your finger, you are considered one as well."

"Fuck this," he muttered.

Jace looked at Hodge through slitted eyes. His lashes were long, casting shadows down over his angular cheekbones. In someone else it would have been a shy look, even an apologetic one, but on Jace it looked narrow and menacing. "I am not a child."

"Hodge is right," said Alec. He was looking at Jace, and Dean thought that he must be one of the few people in the world who looked at Jace not as if he were afraid of him, but as if he were afraid for him. "Valentine is dangerous. I know you're a good Shadowhunter. You're probably the best our age. But Valentine's one of the best there ever was. It took a huge battle to bring him down."

"And he didn't exactly stay down," said Isabelle, examining her fork tines. "Apparently."

"But we're here," said Jace. "We're here and because of the Accords, nobody else is. If we don't do something—"

"We are going to do something," said Hodge. "I'll send the Clave a message tonight. They could have a force of Nephilim here by tomorrow if they wanted. They'll take care of this. You have done more than enough."

Jace subsided, but his eyes were still glittering. "I don't like it."

"You don't have to like it," said Alec. "You just have to shut up and not do anything stupid."

"But what about my mother?" Simon demanded. "She can't wait for some representative from the Clave to show up. Valentine has her right now—Pangborn and Blackwell said so—and he could be…"

 _Torturing her_ , Dean thought.

"Hurting her," Clary said, finishing Simon's sentence and wording Dean's thoughts. "Except, Simon, they also said she was unconscious and that Valentine wasn't happy about it. He seems to be waiting for her to wake up."

"I'd stay unconscious if I were her," Isabelle muttered.

"But that could be any time," said Simon, ignoring Isabelle. "I thought the Clave was pledged to protect people. Shouldn't there be Shadowhunters here right now? Shouldn't they already be searching for her?"

"That would be easier," snapped Alec, "if we had the slightest idea where to look."

"But we do," said Jace.

"You do?" Simon looked at him, startled and eager. "Where?"

"Here." Jace leaned forward and touched his fingers to the side of his temple. "Everything we need to know is locked up in your head, under that thick skull of yours."

Simon's eyes narrowed. "This thick skull has protected my brain from—"

"So what are you going to do?" Charlie asked sharply. "Cut his head open to get at it? Make it seem like an alien invasion and someone kidnapped him and—and— _EEEEEE – TEEEEEE_?" she raised her hand, index finger pointed up as she forced her face into a strange expression—one that was supposed, but failed, to look like ET. She looked more like a constipated horse.

Jace's eyes sparked, but he said calmly, "Not at all. The Silent Brothers can help him retrieve his memories."

 _Silent Brothers_. There it is again.

"You _hate_ the Silent Brothers," protested Isabelle.

"I don't hate them," said Jace candidly. "I'm afraid of them. It's not the same thing."

"I thought you said they were librarians," said Simon.

"They are librarians."

He whistled. "Those must be some killer late fees."

"The Silent Brothers are archivists, much like the Men of Letters. But, just like the Men of Letters, that is not all they are," interrupted Hodge, sounding as if he were running out of patience. "In order to strengthen their minds, they have chosen to take upon themselves some of the most powerful runes ever created. The power of these runes is so great that the use of them—" He broke off. "Well, it warps and twists their physical forms. They are not warriors in the sense that other Shadowhunters are warriors. Their powers are of the mind, not the body."

"So they're like Yuri," Dean said flatly, sharing secret smiles with Charlie

"They can control minds?" Clary said in a small voice.

"You got that reference?"

"God, Dean, you make the weirdest references, ever."

"Appropriate, though." Dean shrugged. _What can you do_?

"Among other things," Hodge interrupted again, the look he sent the three of them flat and please, _children_. "They are among the most feared of all demon hunters." He gave Dean a quick look. "Well, tying to the highest ranked Letters, maybe."

"I don't know," said Simon, "it doesn't sound so bad to me. I'd rather have someone mess around inside my head than chop it off."

"Then you're a bigger idiot than you look," said Jace, regarding him with that _I am better than you_ face he had when he regarded the mundanes. Considering that Simon was one of them, though, Dean was pretty sure that wasn't what the look was meant to be.

_What is it then, Shadowhunter?_

"Jace is right," said Isabelle, ignoring Simon. "The Silent Brothers are really creepy."

Hodge's hand was clenched on the table. "They are very powerful," he said. "They walk in darkness and do not speak, but they can crack open a man's mind the way you might crack open a walnut—and leave him screaming alone in the dark if that is what they desire."

"You said they use your runes," said Dean, now completely uncomfortable with knowing Simon was going to be in their presence... soon. "And that they're closely tied to the highest ranking Letter. How?"

Hodge regarded him slowly, before shaking his head. "If you do not know yet, then it isn't my place to tell you."

 _It wasn't your place to decide to let Simon anywhere near people who can crack his mind_ , he thought, but he remained silent.

Clary looked at Jace, appalled. "You want to _hand Simon over_ to them?"

"I want them to help him." Jace leaned across the closer to Simon, so close that, from Dean's vantage point, he looked as if he was planning on kissing him. "Maybe we don't get to look for the Cup," he said softly. "Maybe the Clave will do that. But what's in your mind belongs to you. Someone's hidden secrets there, secrets you can't see. Don't you want to know the truth about your own life?"

"I don't want someone else inside my head," Simon said weakly. Alarm bells began ringing in the back of Dean's mind, telling him to give into the instinct to _protect, threat, eliminate_ , but this time, he kept a desperate, firm hold on rationality. Jace was right, no matter how creepy it was that these... these Silent Brothers could control, read, _enter_ people's minds. Just the thought of leaving Simon with them raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

He felt like a threatened dog, and he clamped his jaw shut, yelling at himself that _this is Simon's decision, it's his life, you can't control everybody_.

"I'll go with you," said Jace, still leaning closer, too close to Simon. "I'll stay with you while they do it."

"That's sweet," Charlie muttered sarcastically, "except that we all know you have something you want from him. Do you think we're going to trust you?" She snapped her fingers. "Like that?"

"The Silent Brothers won't let you into their domain," Isabelle told her reasonably, and it was unfair because she knew Charlie had a crush on her.

"Well screw the Silent Brothers," Clary answered, her palm hitting the table with a loud ' _snap!_ ' that made them all—Dean and Hodge included—jump.

"So, what, just because you don't trust me, you're going to let his memories stay locked up forever?" Jace's expression was as cold as his tone.

"That's his decision to make, isn't it?" Clary shot back. "This whole time, did you ever wonder how he must be feeling? All you've ever yammered about was—"

"You don't understand _anything_ , mundane—"

"That's enough." Simon stood up from the table, face pale and expression weary. "Leave her alone."

Alec was watching all of them, going from one face to another, and even before he opened his mouth, Dean was pretty sure what he was about to say, what he was about to _tell them_.

“Don’t,” he warned, but Alec ignored him and said, “And what,” with a voice that made Dean just want to punch every single fucking Shadowhunter out there, “are the _mundanes_ still doing here?”

“Leave them alone,” Simon said again, looking over Jace’s shoulder to glare at Alec.

But Jace had already decided it was enough, it seemed. He smiled, but it was cold, and if angels were real, maybe that’s how they smiled. He was beautiful, and even more so with a deadly expression on his face.

"Alec is right," he said. "The Institute is sworn to shelter Shadowhunters, not their mundane friends. _Especially when they've worn out their welcome._ "

Isabelle got up immediately, grabbing at Dean's arm. "I'll show them out."

Dean thought about saying no, of protesting that he'd rather stay with Simon, thank you very much, but he saw the look on Simon's face: pleading, scared, desperate. He let it go, gesturing for Charlie and Clary to get up and get out before he followed behind them, Isabelle holding on to his arm like a vice.

Her nails were digging into the meat of his arm by the time they got the entry way. He could see the elevator at the end of it.

"Ow," he muttered, patting her knuckles. She lessened the pressure of her fist, _just a tiny bit_. "What is it?"

The two other girls had stopped to watch them, Clary looking worried and Charlie murderous as she glared at where Isabelle was holding on to Dean's arm.

"I'm really sorry about this whole thing," Isabelle finally said, letting her arm drop from Dean's arm. He flexed his arm. He hesitated, just for a moment, before he lifted it back up and put it on Isabelle's shoulder. "They're not really always that rude. I don't know what's up."

"Neither do we," Dean said gently, spreading his arms in welcome and wrapping arms around her before pulling away completely. "But we're pretty sure it's the same thing."

Isabelle's smile was faint. "Are you taking the train?"

Dean checked his watch. It was way past midnight already, and he looked at Clary with worry. Her mom had always been protective of both her and her sister Rebecca, always making sure if Dean or Simon was going where she was and if her companions were trustworthy or suspicious.

"No," he finally answered. "I brought my car."

"Take care," Isabelle called.

Dean waved at her, guiding both of his friends to the elevator. The ride was tense and silent, the girls only talking again when they were deciding who was taking shotgun. Charlie, of course, won, silently opening the door and sinking into the leather of the seat.

Dean started driving, considering dropping Clary off first before driving back out to bring Charlie to her house, but he decided otherwise when he got to Main Avenue. Charlie’s goodbye wasn’t as quick nor dismissive as Dean thought they were going to be, and he was relieved. He thought he was going to have to deal with an overreaction to a _crush_.

“Sorry,” he told Clary, when he got to their street. He parked in front of their house, knowing there was no one in his waiting. They’ve all left already.

“What for?” she asked, turning to look at him. Dean could feel her frowning, and he turned to give him a smile. “About that thing with Jace at the table?”

He nodded.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Aren’t you scared?” he asked, looking away, looking to the pavement. He fiddled with the A/C, turning it this way and that, just so he had something to do with his hands. “There are so many things I could do, Clary. I could hurt you. Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“No, because you’re not going to hurt me.” She sounded so… so _sure_ that Dean had to look at her, had to meet her eyes and search for the lie, had to study her face and try to crack the walls of her confidence. “You’re not going to hurt us, Dean,” she said gently, reaching up to touch his face. “I know you. You’re here to protect us.”

 _Am I?_ he wanted to ask. _Do you? Do you know me? I don’t think I even know myself anymore._

They were interrupted by the front porch light turning on, the curtain on the window being swept to the side. Clary sighed and pulled away, but she kept smiling at Dean as she opened the door and stepped outside. “Good night, Dean,” she called, bending by his window to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Get some rest. You look horrible.”

Dean grinned at her and waved at Mrs. Lewis from his car. She waved back, but he could sense even in the distance the tension seeping from her shoulders as she disappeared to let Clary into the house. He pulled away from the Lewis residence and drove down the street, stopping at his house and looking up at it.

It looked cold and dead in the night, especially with the fact that there was no one inside sleeping. Dean had  always prided himself in knowing that their house was cozy, homey and lived-in, but without his parents and little brothers, his home looked more like an abandoned building being put up for sale. The only thing missing was a sign and a real estate agent smiling at him, greeting him with a preppy, ‘ _Good morning, sir, are you interested in a new, warm home_?’

He reached over the console to the glove compartment, his hand reached in and taking out carefully two items: a white card and a red feather.

He looked at it, and then dropped it to the passenger seat. He turned the ignition.

 

*.*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second to the last existing chapter!


	13. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally at the chapter that Started It All.
> 
> Warnings: self-harm, mention of an attempt to end one's life
> 
> also v minor editing in this chapter

 

 

The address led to an abandoned building, on the other side of the town from the docks. This place used to be a residential area, before a tragedy struck and caused people to tide further into what was now New York City. It was never really clear what the tragedy was: a serial murder, a shooting, an earthquake, a _flood_ , but nevertheless, it caused enough to drive the people out of their old homes into building new ones.

The structure of the buildings on this part of the city were old, could have dated back to the first time anyone has tried to build here. The silver rush, or the golden age. No one really knows anymore. History here is just as vague as the borders that separated dimensions. They were spaced unevenly, with front yards crawling with overgrown plants and weeds. The paint—if they painted buildings back then—had all fainted or been peeled away through time—they were a light, washed grey in the light of Dean’s flashlight.

This place seemed to be a city of its own. Dean had just turned from a road that was called ‘First Avenue’, the sign new and bright compared to its dreary surroundings. He was on Appleseed Street, counting the houses, looking at faded metal carvings on their gates that showed their numbers.

His shoes smacked loudly against the cement of the sidewalk and echoed all around him. This was a bad idea, something that went against all his instincts as a Hunter, but there was a reason someone left those items in his car, and he had to find out. He had taken off his coat in the car, leaving it parked a street away from where he thought the building was. It was a smart move, he thought, because three seconds into walking he was sweating like he was in Hell. His hair was beginning to stick to his forehead and the back of his neck, and his shirt was starting to become more and more uncomfortable where it was rubbing damply on his back.

He pulled it away, sighing at the quick flow of cool air on his skin, before letting it go and cringing. It smacked loudly against his back, making him look around quickly. He quickened his pace and entered the old house without hesitation, getting a strange sense of security in the silence that greeted him. Silences usually meant two things: there’s nothing there, or there was something, but it isn’t there at the moment.

He was hoping there never was anything in this building in the first place. But he brought out his gun nevertheless, keeping it pointed to the ground, wrists locked together as his other hand held on to his torch. He panned the light across the room quickly, cataloguing _white sheets, couch, old table, stained floor_ before taking a slow step forward.

The floorboards didn’t creak.

He checked each room on the floor meticulously—even going as far as opening a cabinet or two in the kitchen he had found but there was nothing there. He thought maybe it was a prank, maybe there was nothing there—but a small image in the back of his mind told him he had more to check out. Also, the floor was free of dust. Some of the furniture and all of the windowsills had a layer of dust that made Dean’s nose itch. Something was living here, and he had to find out what.

Outside, when he was watching the house from afar, it looked as if it had a second floor. He went back to the main hallway, panning his flashlight from one end to the other and—

There.

The door was hidden in a niche between two holes in the wall, the holes filled with—

He touched it.

There was nothing but dust.

Maybe there used to be books here, when it was lived in. Abandoned houses always brought out nostalgia in Dean, making him think of the life the people who used to live there must have had, what they used the many furniture for, what it must have looked like when people lived in the rooms instead of their ghosts.

He grinned when he got to the door.

The knob was clean, like it had been used several times already, and the doorjamb was free of dust when he pulled it open. The door did creak this time, and he brought his gun up to eye level, his flashlight taking in the stairs—the middle part seemed to have been scrubbed deliberately of dust, as if feet had been shuffling on them endlessly in the past. He put his full weight on the first step.

It was silent.

His heart began beating faster and faster with each step he took closer to the top—he could see the floor now, the wall on the other side of the hallway the stairs opened to. He tried not to assume what he was going to find up there. It could be  another set of Djinns, or it could be a lone vampire (in that case he would have to run as fast as possible back to his car for a machete) but if it was a shifter he was at _least_ a little safe.

He had brought nothing but silver rounds, and if this was a ghost, he was screwed.

The hallway to his left led to an open secondary living room, devoid of anything but a small, doubtless dirty rag in the middle. His right it is, then.

He pressed himself up against the wall and began walking, senses on high alert for anything, even something as small as a shift in the dust in front of him.

There was nothing in the rooms that branched out from the hallway, and there was only one room he hasn’t checked yet. The double doors looked heavy, intricately carved to depict flowers and trees and leaves and little angels running up and down the sides. He tried shoving with his shoulders. It didn’t work.

Finally deciding to just screw it, he put his gun on the back of his jeans and put his hand on the silver knob, shiny and new compared to the rest of the house.

He hesitated.

It was silver.

He knew the weight, texture of real silver by heart, and he knew that whatever this was, silver didn’t affect it that much. At first he thought, _demon_ , but then again he would have _sniffed_ the son of a bitch in the air where he had parked his car. There was no smell of sulfur here—actually, there was no smell at all. Not even mildew or molds or dust. It just smelled like…

Like open air, like ozone with a hint of mint, like a morning after a thunderstorm and his mom would give him and his brothers cups of melted chocolate and serve French toast.

He opened the door.

The room behind it was a study—there was a large, mahogany desk in the middle, illuminated by Dean’s flashlight and the light from the moon streaming in through the window behind it. It reminded Dean of the desk Hodge had in the Institute’s library for some reason, except this table wasn’t being carried by two angels, it was being carried by weeping creatures kneeling on the floor, looking up as if they were asking for mercy.

He could imagine selling these two tables as a set, making up a bogus story about what they meant and how they were made. He stepped forward into the room. There was a couch against the wall beside the door, several shelves filled with books—dusty and untouched, even from where Dean stood—and behind the desk there was—

“ _Cas?”_ Dean gasped, running to the side of the table and kneeling beside the man’s head, shaking his shoulders. “Cas,” he called, fearing he was dead, but he had a pulse—and he was breathing—when Dean checked. It was cold comfort, though, because when he lifted Cas off of the floor, he was far too light to be healthy and he groaned in protest.

Dean heard a drip that made dread fill his stomach.

He laid Cas down on the table for a moment, hands shaking as he began to check—his neck seemed fine. His chest seemed fine. His arms—

“Ow,” Cas moaned, twitching when Dean touched his arm, and Dean pulled his hand closer to his face and pushed the sleeves of his coat and jacket up Cas’s elbows. Even with his many layers, Cas’s skin was cold to Dean’s touch, as cold as he felt when he saw the bleeding, scabbing lacerations running from Cas’s wrist to his elbow.

“God _damn it_ ,” he growled, pulling Cas’s sleeves down none too gently.

“Do not damn it in God’s name, Dean,” Cas said weakly. Dean’s head snapped up to see those ethereal, glowing blue eyes regarding him. They were clear and conscious for someone he had just found _bleeding on the floor from self-inflicted injury_. His insides twisted as he remembered Charlie—finding Charlie on her bedroom floor, twitching and shaking due to blood loss, how he had panicked and ran on foot towards the hospital, how he couldn’t even move to change his bloodied clothes.

This felt worse, and he didn’t even know who Cas was.

 _What he was_.

“Okay, sorry, I take it back,” said Dean finally, putting the arm on top of Cas’s chest. “Can you stand? Can you walk?”

Cas looked thoughtful, frowning at something over Dean’s shoulder. He heard a shuffle and turned sharply, but there was nothing there. It was just them. Cas was sitting up when Dean looked back at him, and he was blinking owlishly, shaking his head like a puppy experiencing whiplash for the first time. “I don’t think so,” he said conversationally, head tipping to one side with pure, innocent befuddlement overcoming his face. “I feel exhausted. I do not understand. I don’t usually sleep.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re exhausted?” Dean wrapped an arm around Cas’s waist, remembering how _light_ he felt in his arms, and then took Cas’s arm gently and draped it across his shoulders. Dean was wrong, Cas wasn’t his age—he was maybe a year or two older, but he acted like he was six. “Have you eaten anything yet? Or at all?”

Cas was frowning. “I do not eat, Dean. I do not require nor want human nourishment.”

_There it is, the acknowledgment that he wasn’t human._

But he wasn’t hurting Dean.

 _Not yet_.

“What does that mean?” he asked, when he was helping Cas walk down the stairs. He was mostly stable on his feet now, stumbling just every now and then. “What are you, then?”

“You’re a Letter, Dean, I am certain you know.”

“Well, I obviously don’t, Mr. Chuckles, or I wouldn’t be asking you, would I?”

“Dean—”

“Cas, I get a weird letter pointing to here, I get worried. I find _you_ , I get even more worried. What are you? Or what are you up to, at least?”

They were in the sidewalk now, and Dean could not clearly remember how they got there. He just knew he had to get answers from Cas or he was going to go crazy from all these questions without answers—starting from all that shit with the Shadowhunters to all the shit his parents were hiding to now—

This.

He didn’t know why he was so affected by someone he had barely had two conversations with, but he was feeling the same thing he felt whenever he had to let any of his friends go: protectiveness, hesitance, affection.

 _Affection_.

For _Cas_ , who wasn’t human, whose second interaction with Dean was simply to touch him and poof! all his injuries were gone, just like that. Even as Dean thought it to himself, he felt like he was going crazy. He turned to Cas, pleading as he put his hands on Cas’s shoulders.

“Please,” he breathed, and then, inexplicably, he fell into a draw he couldn’t even begin to understand. He just—he just fell.

Right into Cas, who immediately wrapped both arms around him and supported him, kept him standing. “Maybe you are exhausted as well,” Cas said softly into his ear, his voice low and comforting and Dean just wanted to burrow deeper into him. “Come, Dean. Let’s bring you home.”

Dean didn’t remember if he agreed or not.

 

**..--..**

 

Simon stood up, as soon as Dean and Isabelle were out of sight. "I'm tired," he said. "I want to go to sleep."

Jace opened his mouth to protest, but Simon wasn't having any of it. Not anymore. He was going to go to bed.

First, Jace had attacked him. And then he started insulting his friends. They all had rational arguments but _god_ , did they have to be such big assholes about it? Charlie was right.

Maybe he should go. He could see Dean's and Isabelle's silhouettes in the darkness when he stepped into the hallway, watching them go farther and farther.

Maybe he shouldn't be as trusting as he was, no matter what has already happened. They—the Shadowhunters—wanted something out of his situation, and they could very well be just acting like they cared about him and his well-being for the fact that he was their key to getting it.

He sighed and shook his head.

 

*.*

 

 _The room was all gold and white, with high walls that gleamed like enamel, and a roof, high above, clear and glittering like diamonds, like little stars, like the universe is up, reachable, touchable with human fingertips—_ you can touch it, you can, reach up, you won’t be hurt _. There was something soft and silky surrounding Simon, touching, caressing his skin and making him shiver every time he moved. He looked, he was surprised—_ no, not a surprise, not a surprise _—wearing something soft, something black, something moving._ It's satin, velvet, shivering and nice _—_

 _"You see someone more interesting than me?" asked Clary, her voice soft, like a little song, and he_ sings, sings, sings _. Simon steered her through the crowd, and they were leaves caught in a river current, dragged, taken, light. She was wearing a beautiful green dress, and she was_ beautiful, beautiful, beautiful _. Angelic and soft in his hands, she smiles, and her little giggles make his heart thump, thump, thump, and he breathes her in—_ like flowers and Clary and home _—_

 _"There's no one more interesting than you," Simon said, voice low and dragging and he felt her shiver—_ she's not cold, she's not cold, she is soft, soft, soft. She is Clary, she is safe _. "It's just this place. I've never seen anything like it." He turned again as they passed a champagne fountain: an enormous silver dish, the centerpiece a mermaid with a jar pouring sparkling wine down her bare back_. Bubbling, bubbling _. People were filling their glasses from the dish, laughing and talking. The mermaid turned her head as Simon and Clary passed, and smiled. The smile showed white teeth as sharp as a vampire's—_ beautiful and deadly, that one, careful, careful _._

 _"Welcome to the Glass City," said a voice that wasn't Clary's. Simon found that she had disappeared and he was now dancing with Jace, who was wearing white, the material of his shirt a thin cotton; he could see the black Marks through it._ Beautiful and deadly, this one. Hush, safe _. There was a bronze chain around his throat, and his hair and eyes looked more gold than ever. He can write poems about Jace, Simon finds, and he softens at his touch, because he can sing Jace's songs, too._

 _"Where's Clary?" he asked as they spun again around the champagne fountain. Simon saw Isabelle there, with Alec, both of them in royal blue. They were holding hands like Hansel and Gretel in the dark forest, and made him want to giggle. It wasn't funny, except it was, and it didn't matter to him._ It shouldn’t, why should it? You matter, don’t worry. You are safe.

_"This place is not for the cursed," said Jace. His hands were cool on Simon's, and he was more aware of it than he had been when he was holding Clary._

_He narrowed his eyes at Jace. "What do you mean?"_

_He leaned close. He could feel his lips against her ear. They were not cool at all. "Wake up, Simon," he whispered. "Wake up. Wake up."_

Simon bolted upright in bed, gasping, hair plastered to his neck with cold sweat. His wrists were held in a hard grip, and for a moment his mind flashed into a small panic. He kicked up, remembering Charlie's and Dean's lessons in self-defense, heard a grunt, and kept wiggling until he realized who was holding him down. "Jace?"

"Yeah." He was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking tousled and half-awake (but still more attractive than Simon can ever dream to be), with early-morning hair and sleepy eyes. "Will you stay still, please? _Still_ ," he said again.

"Yes, say that to someone who wakes up being held down," Simon commented snidely. "Kinky. Let me go, then," he said, finally falling still, as per his instructions.

Jace rolled his eyes. "Sorry." His fingers slipped from his wrists, and Simon twisted them back and forth, wiggling his fingers as blood began to circulate into his hand once more.

"How tight were you holding me?" he asked, scowling at Jace. "I feel like you were trying to cut my hand off."

"You tried to hit me the second I said your name." He shrugged.

He raised his eyebrows (because he could never achieve being able to raise just one). "I'm not supposed to apologize for being jumpy, am I? I've had a very exciting few days." Simon glanced around, ignoring the look of annoyance that crossed Jace's face. By the grace of God, he didn't say anything in response. He was in a small bedroom furnished in dark wood. By the quality of the faint light coming in through the half-open window, he guessed it was dawn, or just after—lord knew how many times he had seen it through his bedroom windows since he learnt how to play video games, alone or otherwise. His backpack was propped against one wall.  He frowned. "How did I get here? I don't remember…"

"I found you asleep on the floor in the hallway." Jace sounded amused. "Hodge helped me get you into bed. Thought you'd be more comfortable in a guest room than in the infirmary."

Simon blinked. "Wow. I don't remember anything." He rubbed the haze of sleep from his eyes and yawned, running his fingers through his hair and pulling at the long strands behind his head. He had never pegged himself to be a light sleeper—not the kind of light Dean was, who woke and was alert at the slightest little creak of old wood—but he never thought he could fall into such a deep sleep, either. And then wake up as alert as he did. "What time is it, anyway?"

Or maybe that's just waking up with Jace holding him down, and he thanked God—he had never thanked the Big Guy upstairs so much as was doing this morning—puberty didn't think to betray him today.

"About five."

 _It could also be because you have had an exciting few days, Simon_.

Jace's words registered in Simon's mind. "In the morning?" He glared at the other dude— _very mature, Simon_ —because nope, five AM was too early. Far too early. "You'd better have a good reason for waking me up."

"Why, were you having a good dream?"

He could still feel the soft, shiver-inducing material of the silk that had made up his clothes, the coolness of Jace's hand, the comfort of Clary's scent and giggles. "I don't remember," he answered.

Jace stood up. "One of the Silent Brothers is here to see you. Hodge sent me to wake you up. Actually, he offered to wake you up himself, but since it's five a.m., I figured you'd be less cranky if you had something nice to look at."

"Meaning you?" Simon raised his eyebrows. Again. And prayed that the longer he spent with Shadowhunters, the more he'd learn how to raise a single one. _You grew up with Charlie_ , a little voice in his head said in betrayal. _You never learned in four years_. He ignored it.

"What else?"

" _Oh my god_ ," he groaned, and then shook his head. "I didn't agree to this, you know," he snapped. "This Silent Brother thing. I didn't agree to anyone just prying into my head, thanks."

"Do you want to find your mother," he said, "or not?"

Simon stared at him.

"You just have to meet Brother Jeremiah. That's all. You might even like him. He's got a great sense of humor for a guy who never says anything."

It might not have been his most mature moment, but he rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Get out," he said, trying to keep the misery he was beginning to feel about the day from reflecting in his voice. "Get out so I can change."

Simon swung his legs out of bed the moment the door shut behind Jace. Though it was barely dawn, humid heat was already beginning to gather in the room. He pushed the window shut and went into the bathroom to wash up as quickly as he could, not even being able to enjoy the relief of cold water on his skin. He took the time to brush his teeth, thankful for the little camping kit he had found in the bottom of his bag.

He smiled sadly. That had probably all been Jocelyn, still taking care of him even at this time, when he was desperately trying to look for her.

 _Not desperate enough_ , the same snide little voice said in his head. He ignored it once more and, five minutes later, he was sliding his feet into his sneakers. He'd changed into a soft pair of jeans and a plain black band shirt he probably had gotten from a garage sale. It advertised AC/DC, forever his favorite rock band, one that matched a shirt Charlie owned.

He wondered for a moment how they were, and then went to join Jace out in the hallway.

Church was there with him, muttering and circling restlessly.

"What's with the cat?" Simon asked. He leaned down to scratch behind its ears, the purring overpowering the nervous little ticks for a small moment.

"The Silent Brothers make him nervous."

Simon made a face. “Seems to me like they make everyone nervous, don’t they.”

Jace smiled thinly. Church meowed as they set off down the hall, but didn't follow them. At least the thick stones of the cathedral walls still held some of the night's chill: The corridors were dark and cool, making Simon want to press up against them just to get rid of the heat that was slowly making him want to take off his clothes.

When they reached the library, Simon was surprised to see that the lamps were off. The library was lit only by the milky glow that filtered down through the high windows set into the vaulted roof. It was dim enough inside that it took Simon several moments to blink into seeing inside properly, but bright enough that he could still see everything inside clearly. Hodge sat behind the enormous desk in a suit, his gray-streaked hair silvered by the dawn light.

Simon had a small moment of emptiness—the kind of feeling you get when someone you know pulls your leg using a circumstance that's serious, like his mom missing. Then there was something - someone moving out of the dimness, and he realized that what his brain had registered as a darker patch in the dim room was, indeed, a man. An actual, tall man in a heavy robe that fell from neck to foot, covering him completely, with the hood of the robe raised, hiding his face. He would have thought he was with those men they had witnessed at Luke's place except that the robe was the color of parchment, and the intricate runic designs along the hem and sleeves that looked as if they had been inked there in drying blood hummed to him differently than those he had already seen on Shadowhunter skin and wherever else those runes were present.

The hair on the back of his neck rose and prickled. _Nervous, right_. Understatement of the frickin era.

"This," said Hodge, interrupting his nervous mind babble "is Brother Jeremiah of the Silent City."

The man came toward them, his heavy cloak swirling as he moved, and Simon noted another thing that made him stranger and weirder than he already was in his mind: the guy made no sound whatsoever as he walked, not the slightest footstep, not even the heavy—or what he thought was heavy—fabric of his cloak, which should have at least rustled as it came into contact with itself, made a single peep. It was seriously creepy, as in, ghost level creepy, and suddenly he wished for videogame customs where music played when there was an enemy in your vicinity.

Not that he thought of Brother Jeremiah as an enemy, but he wasn't really playing into the immediate ally category, either. He resisted the urge to take a step behind Jace to hide as the man stopped right in front of them.

He had a strange scent, like incense or blood, something sweet, something decidedly living, alive, and for some reason it made Simon salivate.

That had to be abnormal.

"And this, Jeremiah," Hodge said, rising from his desk, "is the boy I wrote to you about. Simon Fray."

The hooded face turned slowly toward him. Simon felt cold, numb, like he couldn't move. Maybe this was what fear paralysis felt like, like you wanted to move but your body doesn't listen to your brain because all functions have been shut down by a hormone that made you useless. "Hey," he greeted, thankful at least his mouth and voice worked.

There was no reply, just complete silence, except for the heavy pounding of Simon's heart.

"I decided you were right, Jace," said Hodge.

"I was right," said Jace. "I usually am." His voice warmed Simon, just a little, like a thin coat in the winter.

Hodge ignored this. "I sent a letter to the Clave about all this last night, but Simon's memories are his own. Only he can decide how he wants to deal with the contents of his own head. If he wants the help of the Silent Brothers, he should have that choice."

 _Choice_ , Simon thought. It was something that's been taken from him this whole past week, and this illusion of him having a choice made him feel a little more miserable than he already was.

Totally unhealthy.

Simon said nothing, though. Dorothea had said there was a block in his mind, hiding something. Of course he wanted to know what it was. But the shadowy figure of the Silent Brother was so—well, silent. Silence itself seemed to flow from him like a dark tide, black and thick as ink. It chilled his bones.

There was a choice to make here, and it was laid right in front of him. Both of them were a disadvantage to him. The first, because it would mean that whatever was being kept in his mind—harmful, helpful, whichever—would be revealed and he wasn't sure what he wanted. The second, because it would mean no more clues as to how to find his mother.

Choices, choices. There are no choices.

There's only one, one he was sure his helpers wanted him to choose, and only one that had an upside.

Brother Jeremiah's face was still turned toward him, nothing but darkness visible underneath his hood. **This is Jocelyn's child?**

Simon breathed in and took that one step back he had resisted earlier.

The words were in his head, echoing and resounding, like that little voice he wanted to get rid of, but it felt as foreign as hearing someone else's words using your ears.

"Yes," said Hodge, and added quickly, "but his father was a mundane."

 **That does not matter** , said Jeremiah. **The blood of the Clave is dominant**.

 _Said is a strange word_ , Simon thought. _It's more like—thought_. He shivered.

"Why did you call my mother Jocelyn?" said Simon, searching in vain for some sign of a face beneath the hood. "Did you know her?"

"The Brothers keep records on all members of the Clave," explained Hodge. "Exhaustive records—"

"Not that exhaustive," said Jace, "if they didn't even know she was still alive."

Simon decided to ignore Jace’s comment, although he couldn’t completely ignore the _he’s right_ that reverberates through his bones in response. "There's something I don't understand," Simon said. "Why would Valentine think my mom had the Mortal Cup? If she went through so much trouble to disappear, like you said, taking the help of a warlock"—he glanced at Jace, remembered their discussion, the origin of warlocks—"then why would she bring it with her?"

"To keep him from getting his hands on it," said Hodge. "She above all people would have known what would happen if Valentine had the Cup. And I imagine she didn't trust the Clave to hold on to it. Not after Valentine got it away from them in the first place."

"I guess." Simon couldn't keep the doubt from his voice. Neither could he keep from doubting the rationality behind that explanation. The whole thing seemed so unlikely. He tried to picture his mother fleeing under cover of darkness, with a big gold cup stashed in the pocket of her overalls, and failed. Then again, where could this cup have gone?

"Jocelyn turned against her husband when she found out what he intended to do with the Cup," said Hodge. "It's not unreasonable to assume she would do everything in her power to keep the Cup from falling into his hands. The Clave themselves would have looked first to her if they'd thought she was still alive."

"Why is it," Simon said, "that everyone your Clave thinks is dead actually isn't?" There was a hardness in his voice he didn't recognize, probably couldn't if he tried. "Maybe you should start investing in other forensic strategies, hmm?"

"My father's dead," said Jace, the same edge in his voice. "I don't need other forensics to tell me _that_."

Simon turned on him, his hands flailing in an attempt to express his frustration and exasperation – _why does it all have to go back to you?!_ "Look, I didn't mean—"

 **That is enough** , interrupted Brother Jeremiah. **There is truth to be learned here, if you are patient enough to listen to it**. **It is likely that she had the assistance of a warlock in her disappearance. Most Shadowhunters cannot so easily escape the Clave**. There was no emotion in Jeremiah's voice; he sounded neither approving nor disapproving of Jocelyn's actions. He had no accent, no inflection, no anything that would hint what he felt towards what he was talking about. Like a drone.

With a quick gesture he raised his hands and drew the hood back from his face. Forgetting Jace, Simon fought the urge to cry out or make a noise and suppressed a shiver. The gesture that came out probably looked like an unattractive seizure, but—the archivist's head was bald, smooth and white as an egg, darkly indented where his eyes had once been. They were gone now. His lips were crisscrossed with a pattern of dark lines that resembled surgical stitches. Simon finally understood now what Isabelle had meant by mutilation.

His look reminded him of—of some kind of horror movie antagonist, and he wanted to just whimper or something. He bit his lip instead. _Is this a scene from Stephen King’s imagination or something? It’s a scene from Stephen King’s head, isn’t it._

 **The Brothers of the Silent City do not lie** , said Jeremiah. **If you want the truth from me, you shall have it, but I shall ask of you the same in return.**

Simon lifted his chin, the greatest act of defiance he could manage with his headspace. "I'm not a liar either." He was proud his voice was as steady as it came out. He ignores the sickening sing-song of giggles in his mind.

 **The mind cannot lie**. Jeremiah moved toward him. **It is your memories I want**.

The smell of blood and ink was stifling, and the pooling of saliva in his mouth returned. Simon recognized it as what it was finally—it was the symptom of vomiting. Simon felt a wave of panic, because nope, he so did not want to ruin this place with his guts. "Wait—"

"Simon." It was Hodge, his tone gentle, and it at least took his mind off the churning in his belly. "It's entirely possible that there are memories you have buried or repressed, memories formed when you were too young to have a conscious recollection of them, that Brother Jeremiah can reach. It could help us a great deal."

Simon said nothing, biting the inside of his lip. He hated the idea of someone reaching inside his head, touching memories so private and hidden that even he couldn't reach them. He had read and played and watched enough to know that it was probably a bad idea but—those were virtual realities, made in the minds of the people who had created and weaved them, made their laws, and created them into tangible items.

This was his reality now, but he wasn't sure if there was much of a difference. After all, tales are based on some reality.

"He doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to do," Jace said suddenly. "Does he?"

Simon looked at Jace, but he wasn't looking at him. He had his eyes on Hodge. He was so grateful for this blond dick, no matter how annoying he could get at times, because in the past few days he'd been the only one in this new world aside from his friends who made it clear he was on Simon's side. But... he had already made up his mind. "It's all right. I'll do it," he said, interrupting whatever reply Hodge had thought up.

Brother Jeremiah nodded curtly, and moved toward him with the soundlessness that sent chills up his spine. Despite his show of faux bravery, though, he still had a fear—a big one, no less. "Will it hurt?" he whispered.

Brother Jeremiah didn't reply, but his narrow white hands came up to touch Simon's face. The skin of his fingers was thin as parchment paper, inked all over with runes. He could feel the power in them, jumping like static electricity to sting his skin, humming like electricity, with different tunes and pitches. He closed his eyes, but not before he saw the anxious expression that crossed Hodge's face.

_What could that have meant?_

Before he could think any more of it, though, he was interrupted by colors—colors that swirled up against the darkness behind his eyelids, swirls and circles that went in clockwise and counterclockwise circles. He was reminded of that one time he had tried finger-painting with Clary, mixing paint with his fingertips on the pallet. He was reminded of pictures that depicted hallucinations brought about by drug us.

He felt a pressure, a drawing pull in his head and hands and feet, pulling him up, down, forward—like he was a piece of magnet, suddenly he was _Erik Lensherr_ , and around him—his metals. He clenched his hands, straining against the weight, the blackness. He felt as if he were pressed up against something hard and unyielding, being slowly crushed. He heard himself gasp and went suddenly cold all over, cold as winter. In a flash he saw an icy street, gray buildings looming overhead, an explosion of whiteness stinging his face in freezing particles—

"That's enough." Jace's voice cut through the winter chill, and the falling snow vanished, a shower of white sparks. Simon's eyes sprang open. There was a subtle shake in his body, something he forced back by clenching his hands in tight fists, nails digging crescent wounds on his palms.

Slowly the library came back into focus—the book-lined walls, the anxious faces of Hodge and Jace. Brother Jeremiah stood unmoving, a carved idol of ivory and red ink. Simon became aware of the sharp pains in his hands, and glanced down to see red, blood slowly flowing from the wounds he had inflicted on himself.

"Jace," Hodge said reprovingly.

"Look at Simon's hands." Jace gestured toward Simon, who crossed his arms against his chest, hiding his hands under his elbows. He wasn't sure they didn't notice he was shaking, but if they did, he was glad for being given the benefit of the doubt. He didn't think he could take the obvious being stated at the moment.

Hodge put a broad hand on his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

 _No,_ he thought, despaired and cold. _I'm not alright. I don't know what the Hell I just went through_. Slowly, reluctantly, he moved his head in a nod. The crushing weight had gone, but he could feel the sweat, cold, icy, that drenched his hair, pasted his shirt to his back like sticky tape.

 **There is a block in your mind** , said Brother Jeremiah. **Your memories cannot be reached**.

"A block?" asked Jace. "You mean he's repressed his memories?"

He glanced at Simon. _We've thought that already, haven't we_?

**No. I mean they have been blocked from his conscious mind by a spell. I cannot break it here. He will have to come to the Bone City and stand before the Brotherhood.**

"A _spell_?" said Simon incredulously. "Who would have put a spell on me?"

Nobody answered him, but no one had to. Jace looked at his tutor. Simon had connected the dots—his mother escaping, the help of a warlock—it was no question she would have had that same warlock—what? Make this 'block' on his mind?

Jace was surprisingly pale, Simon thought, when he looked. "Hodge, he shouldn't have to go if he doesn't—"

"It's all right." Simon took a deep breath. His palms ached where his nails had cut them, and he wanted badly to lie down somewhere dark and rest. "I'll go. I want to know the truth. I want to know what's in my head." _It doesn't matter that a freaking Shadowhunter seems to think this is not a good idea_. "This isn't my idea of a good time, but I _need_ to know the truth."

Jace caught his look, his tone, his eyes, and nodded once. "Fine. Then I'll go with you."

 

**..--..**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! Constructive criticism is highly appreciated.  
> __  
> edit 7/08: aight this ain't a fill anymore
> 
> all credits to the owners/writers/creators of references, including but not limited to:  
> 1\. ET  
> 2\. Yuri's Revenge  
> 3\. Harry Potter  
> 4\. The X-Files


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